


What the Water Gave Me

by iesika



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Case Fic, Consumption of humans by animals, Discussion of Rape, FBI profiler Hannibal Lecter, For Want of a Nail, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hate Crimes, M/M, Murder, Period-Typical Attidutes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn, Someone Help Hannibal Lecter, That period happens to be now, Will is a mystery, Will never left Louisiana, consumption of animals by humans, consumption of humans by humans, discussion of real-life crime, graphic description of nature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 07:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 59,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iesika/pseuds/iesika
Summary: In the summer of 2011, psychiatrist and FBI consultant Dr. Hannibal Lecter travels with a crack forensic team to the murder capital of America to assist the New Orleans field office in hunting a possible serial killer. But bodies aren't the most interesting thing he finds when the water starts to rise.Or, what would have happened if Will never left Louisiana?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of disclosure/context, I grew up in the area where this fic is set but I am not black, Cajun or Creole, and my family was above the poverty line. I'm doing my best, and my intentions are good, but if you're in a position to know better than me and you think I handled something poorly, please let me know so I can try to address it.
> 
> The past serial killers discussed in Chapter One are real people, and there's a real killer discussed in Chapter Six. No other part of this story contains anyone intended to resemble a real person - criminal, victim, or law enforcement. Unless I say otherwise, though, the places are real. 
> 
> The disappearance, trafficking and murder of girls and young women, especially young black girls and women, in New Orleans and other parts of Louisiana is a _huge_ issue. The numbers are staggering and the stories are horrifying. For more information and possible ways to help, please see: [The Modern Slavery Research Project](https://www.modernslaveryresearch.org/), Eden House, [New Orleans Women and Children's Shelter](https://nowcs.org/), and/or [Covenant House](https://www.covenanthouse.org/).  
>  (caveat donor, some of these organizations are faith-based and may not have great LGBTQ inclusion/outreach).
> 
> On a lighter note, see the end of each chapter for a link to recipe and music recommendations!
> 
> Title from [the Frida Kahlo painting](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/e/e4/What_the_Water_Gave_Me_by_Frida_Kahlo.jpg) and [the Florence and the Machine song of same name.](https://youtu.be/am6rArVPip8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to glymr for beta help!

**Friday, May 13, 2011 - New Orleans, Louisiana, Gentilly**

"You're wasting your time, you know," Agent Wilson says. Hannibal notes the way that Beverly's posture goes tight before he looks up to regard the man looming in the doorway of the cramped office they've commandeered for the duration of their stay in the New Orleans field office. 

The Agent In Charge is older than Hannibal and trying to hide it by dying his hair dark. He's also been phenomenally unhelpful; his section is poorly managed, with terrible work ethic and a tribal insularity he's heard Jim Price call "the Good Old Boys Club." 

Wilson's personal distaste for their team has been clear since they arrived here almost a week ago. He has made much show out of failing to understand Hannibal through his accent, and he has been entirely dismissive of Beverly's contributions to the investigation. He is clearly resentful on a professional level of the out-of-town experts who have swooped in to tackle a problem he claims does not exist. 

"Knowledge gained is never wasted," Hannibal tells the man, keeping his voice level. Beside him, Beverly smiles slightly to herself as she highlights a line of text. She has observed his behavior enough to recognize certain signs of his displeasure - he has not risen for the man's presence, or greeted him by name. She reads the chilliness of his reception and assumes it is a show of solidarity. 

"Washington sent you down here on a goose chase," Wilson says dismissively. He shifts, settling his weight comfortably against the door jamb. He intends to linger and disrupt them, then. This is not merely a passing visit. "A couple small-towners made a fuss and Obama or some of his people thought making up some racial thing to 'fix' would be good for the next election." 

"We're here because of three girls missing and one found dead." Beverly says without looking up.

"Girls like that go missing all the time," Wilson says, like this is an normal and expected part of life. "They just wander off, or they move to the big city so it's easier to trade their asses for crack. They do dumb shit and get themselves killed." 

"The statistics are indeed appalling," Hannibal says. Wilson will hear agreement. Beverly will hear a scathing criticism. "The time we've spent examining missing persons reports and cold homicides has certainly been eye opening. But not, I think, wasted." 

"Four girls is just a clump in the numbers. It's not a serial killer," Wilson insists, for perhaps the hundredth time since their arrival. 

Hannibal is quite certain the man is wrong. The team from the BAU had found three other likely pattern victims by Wednesday, and now they're combing through a truly enormous data pool, hunting for signal among the noise. The girls missing in Maringouin and Rosedale stood out to the locals because in towns with a population hovering around a thousand, one or two missing women are instantly noticeable. That's how they'd managed to tie in the young woman missing from Lottie, and the ones from Ramah and Grosse Tête - and then, once they'd known the victims might not all be black women, the one from all the way in Port Barre. 

Not just Iberville Parish and neighboring Pointe Coupe, then - and if their killer had taken a victim in St. Landry Parish, if he is that mobile, why would he have stopped there? Why not hunt in richer grounds, where staggering rates of missing and trafficked young women would hide all evidence of a pattern?

"I think I have one," Beverly says once the tiresome man has gotten bored of glaring at them while they work. "Scotlandville, just north of Baton Rouge. Glenda Hoffman, 19. Single mom. Went out for groceries after her son was in bed and never came home. They found her car in the Walmart parking lot. Two old pickups for solicitation, one for possession, but no domestic reports and her mother swore up and down that she wasn't seeing anyone."

Hannibal takes the papers she passes him and peruses them, glancing through the details - the time, the place, the various police reports, known associates, employment history. "Could be," he agrees, and adds her information to their growing list of possibles. 

Hannibal has felt the suspicion of a pattern for several days. He'd like the chance to enjoy himself in New Orleans over the weekend, though, so he'll wait to bring it up on Monday. There are still a few things that don't quite fit, anyway.

"It's almost six," Beverly says. She leans back in her chair, cracking her back as she raises her arms above her head. "Damn, these chairs are terrible." 

"We're unlikely to find more tonight if we burn ourselves out," Hannibal tells her. "I'm surprised our esteemed colleagues haven't dragged us off before now, actually." 

"I told Jimmy if he didn't bug me all afternoon I'd let him drag me to Bourbon Street tonight." She grins. "Brian doesn't know it yet, but he's coming, too. You should join us. I've never seen you shitfaced." 

Hannibal allows a small smile as he sweeps his notes and pencils into his leather case. "Nor shall you." 

"Come oooon," Beverly wheedles. She tugs gently at his arm. "You can't just hole up at the motel all weekend." 

"As much as I'm sure I'd enjoy an evening out with you and Jim, I'm afraid I already have dinner plans," he tells her, allowing just enough relief to show through his regret to make her laugh. He is, as he always is with this particular set of people, charming and good-natured, but a little stuffy. "Perhaps another night." 

 

**Friday, May 13, 2011 - New Orleans, Louisiana, French Quarter**

After a ride back to his accommodations, such as they are, to freshen up and dress for dinner, Hannibal calls a cab and heads for Galatoire's in the French Quarter. He takes some satisfaction in skipping the long line snaking down the sidewalk. Jack hasn't arrived yet, but he spots Sergeant Germaine Grant at a table near the mirrored wall, out of uniform and staring fixedly down at his drink. 

The man is strongly built but soft now around the middle, a once active man brought to slight disrepair by age and the shift from city beat to desk job. His dark skin is darker at his throat and, when Hannibal had met him in his short-sleeved uniform, his elbows, the skin there discolored and showing xeroderma from velvet rash, suggesting incipient type two diabetes. He has been unfailingly warm and polite since Jack introduced him as an old army friend on Tuesday, and Hannibal is hoping for an opportunity to gently bring up the man's medical history and steer him toward a reputable endocrinologist. 

"Dr. Lecter," Sergeant Grant says, brightly, as he stands to offer Hannibal a hand. "Good to see the fibbies didn't try to keep you all night." 

"They might have tried," Hannibal says as he unbuttons his jacket and slips into his seat. "But I was promised 'the best pecan pie anyone but your grandmama ever made.'" 

The quotation has the desired effect, and Sergeant Grant sits back with a deep laugh. He waves to a waiter and greets him by name when he reaches the table. "My friend here needs a drink." At Hannibal's amused look, he grins. "You've had Wilson up your ass all week. Save the wine list for dinner and get you a sazerac." 

"I will defer to local expertise," Hannibal says and inclines his head to the waiter. When the man bustles off, he takes a moment to look around the room. The low lights are reflected off the many mirrors and the french windows at front of house. The slowly spinning fans on the high ceilings draw his eyes up, and then out over the crowded room. 

Three tables away, a young black man in a cheap jacket stands and yields his table to a party of three white couples in suits and cocktail dresses. Money changes hands, and Hannibal watches the man disappear through the french doors out into the night. 

"They don't take reservations," Sergeant Grant tells him. "People just pay somebody to wait in line for them. There are folks who do it for most of their living." 

How absurd. "Is that how you claimed this table?" Hannibal asks. 

"Nah, I sent an officer in to warm my seat." When Hannibal returns his eyes back to his companion, he shrugs. "He was happy to get out of the heat for a while." 

And the city paid to hold this table. Hannibal accepts his drink from their returning server and contemplates it in the light before breathing deep, savoring the herbal notes and the hints of aniseed and lemon among the rye whiskey before taking a long, slow sip. 

Jack arrives moments later, blaming the assistant director for his delay as he tucks himself up to the table and spreads his napkin in his lap. "They're talking about pulling us back," Jack tells Hannibal. "Wilson's still raising a stink and he's got some kind of backing from State Police. If we don't find something more conclusive linking the murders we'll be back home before the middle of the week. 

"I'm confident we'll find something," Hannibal tells him. "Despite local obstruction. Present company excepted, of course." 

"Of course," Grant agrees. He rolls his eyes and leans forward over the table, inviting conspiracy. "Y'all dig up anything interesting?" 

Hannibal looks over his menu and waits for Jack to set the level of disclosure for this discussion. It seems Jack met with the rest of the team while Hannibal was cleaning up, because he's been filled in on Beverly's find, and another possible linked case Jim and Brian dug up this afternoon, six years ago in a town called Fordoche, in Pointe Coupe Parish, which would mark their earliest case so far. Hannibal will have to take a look through the records to be sure. Asking for what he needs would start Jack's mind down avenues that would ruin Hannibal's weekend plans. 

"It's a damn shame," Sergeant Grant says, after the waiter has delivered his speech about the specials and taken their orders. "State Police is really still fighting y'all on this? You think they'd learned their lesson with the last… what, four, five serial killers they missed?" 

Jack makes a sound of agreement. "There was a case in Baton Rouge a few years ago where the task force was so confident in a bad profile that they were out doing cheek swabs before they caught the guy another way and realized they had almost everything backward." He tips his glass to Hannibal. "That's why I brought my own profiler with me." 

Hannibal bows his head graciously and tips his glass back before finishing off his cocktail just in time for their starters to arrive. 

"There turned out to be two of them in Baton Rouge, though," Grant says. "There was someone else running around out there at the same time, similar MO but completely unconnected, muddying the water. They didn't even know to start looking for him until they caught the first guy."

"I _hate_ when that happens," Jack says with great feeling. "Just when you think you're ready to wrap up… Bam, back into the trenches. The only thing worse is copycats. Always makes you doubt if you got the right guy the first time."

"At least none of ours are eating people." Grant points his fork at Hannibal, who pauses with a bite of shrimp halfway to his lips. "Jack was telling me about that Hobbs case, Hell of a way to start a career shift. Sounds like you worked a miracle, finding that psycho. Though I guess that's not really dinner table conversation." 

"Jack and I have worked through many a dinner," Hannibal admits. "I'm afraid we're rather used to pairing our meat with morbidity." 

Jack launches into a retelling of the Eldon Stammets case, talking up Hannibal's deductions regarding the victims' medical condition as if he's bragging on a favorite hunting dog. It might have been irritating if Hannibal weren't so amused by the dissonance between Jack's proud story and reality. 

Hannibal had smelled the acetone odor of ketoacidosis on the breath of their sole temporary survivor from the first mushroom garden and worked out how to track the man from there. He'd waited a few weeks before his 'breakthrough' on the case - time enough to gather quite a crop of oyster mushrooms and morels. 

"When we found him," Jack is saying, "he'd mostly buried himself like a kid at the beach, gave himself a sedative in the sugar water IV and just...went to sleep. Let the mushrooms eat him alive." 

"Christ, that's terrifying," Grant says. Hannibal is already looking forward to watching him eat his redfish bonne femme. 

"These are good, but your sweetbreads are better," Jack murmurs to Hannibal, under the cover of the noisy dining room. Someone seems to be having a birthday or an anniversary every five minutes or so, but Hannibal's shrimp remoulade is delightful enough to make up for the noise, especially seasoned with the schadenfreude of the long line outside. "But I guess even the best restaurants can't replicate the personal touch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [companion post on tumblr with food and music recs and extra notes](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/165778465981/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)  
>  Click the link y'all, I got the actual recipes from Galatoire's this time, and the best jazz you'll ever hear.
> 
>  
> 
> [Now with an additional notes post about Galatoire's, featuring a dog in a tuxedo.](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/165866881356/in-chapter-one-of-what-the-water-gave-me-i-sent)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bedelia once referred to his carefully structured public persona as a 'person suit.' It seems an apt metaphor, having traded his polished and tightly tailored wardrobe for something lighter and easier to move in, for the day. For the night, as well._  
>     
> Or, Hannibal goes exploring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the end notes or follow me on tumbr [@iesika](http://iesika.tumblr.com/) for recipes and music recs. 
> 
> Thanks to glymr and begintoblur for beta help, and to fellow louisiannibal misskillerb for much fun discussion.

**Friday, May 13, 2011 - New Orleans, Louisiana, French Quarter**

Jack insists on treating, to Sergeant Grant's reluctant relief and Hannibal's token protest. "You feed me often enough," Jack argues. 

"I'll have to treat you again to my superior sweetbreads," Hannibal allows. This is uproariously funny to Grant after two bottles of wine between the three of them and the cocktails before. Even Hannibal is feeling a bit hot under the collar in the warm and muggy air. He decides to loosen his tie a bit while they wait for a cab, to Jack's apparent delight. 

"Used to be, it rained like clockwork here every afternoon around the same time, all summer long," Grant tells them. "Cooled it off and cut the humidity down. Anybody who don't believe in global warming needs to come down here in August - we'll set 'em straight." 

"Has there really been that much of a change?" Hannibal asks. 

"We're in the worst drought for about fifty years," Grant says. "And 'cuz God's got a awful sense of humor, the highest water in almost that long, too. They've got nearly all the pins open on the Bonnet Carre Spillway, or we'd be wading home right now - and the river's still about to overtop the levees."

"How the hell does that work?" Jack asks. 

"Oh," Grant waves a hand vaguely toward the front of town. "The river. Heavy rains way up north a while ago. We get most of the country's shit, sooner or later." He snorts. "Literally. Anyway, it's got us all praying like hell it'll rain and cut the heat and praying like hell it won't rain and drown us all." 

How delightfully perverse. Hannibal finds himself humming a bit of the fourth movement of Beethoven's sixth symphony as he climbs into the taxi which will take him and Jack back to their abominable lodgings. There are such fine and interesting old hotels closer to the river, but with the FBI's budgetary considerations they are instead gracing a Motel 6 behind a Walmart with their presence.

"If I don't see you before they run you out of town, make sure to kiss your _bella bella bella_ for me," Grant says as he sees them off. 

"Oh I'll kiss her, but not for you," Jack shoots back from the window as they pull away from the curb. "You had your chance, you bastard."

Later that night, Hannibal is pulled from a light sleep when he hears a woman shouting outside his motel room. After pulling on a robe, he heads out onto the second floor breezeway. His suspicion proves correct when he spots the rest of their investigative team clustered together in the parking lot, under the orange glow of the sodium streetlights. 

Beverly appears to be trying to strangle Brian Zeller. There's something dark red staining the front of her shirt, and for just a moment in his half-dreamy state he imagines that it's blood, until the scent of rum and passion fruit drift up to him over the general stink of this part of the city, less photogenic and less hygienic than the Vieux Carré. 

"I liked this shirt," Beverly complains as Jim pulls them apart. "Jimmy, make him buy me a new shirt." 

"Jimmy, make her buy me another hurricane," Brian says, parroting her tone. He lists to the left when Beverly lets him go and has to catch himself with his shoulder against a pickup truck. 

"You have definitely had enough already. If anyone deserves another drink, it's me, playing nanny to you two children." 

Beverly spots him then and waves up cheerily. "You shoulda come. Jimmy got a lap dance and I made out with a drag queen." 

"It's quite late" Hannibal tells her, not raising his voice any more than necessary to reach them. "Go to bed now and you can tell me all about it over breakfast. I'll even treat."

"Fuck that," Jim says, pleasantly amused. "We are capital T trashed. Make it lunch and maybe." 

Behind him, Brian empties the colorful contents of his stomach onto the asphalt. 

The things he puts up with just for the pleasure of investigating his own murders...

 

**Saturday, May 14, 2011 - New Orleans, Louisiana, French Quarter**

Hannibal rises at dawn, dresses in a casual linen suit, and sets out for the old French market early to avoid the worst of the heat. He's beaten the tourist crowd as well, but there are already dozens of hobby chefs and professional restaurateurs bargaining for fresh seafood and produce. He eats hot beignets and spicy boiled crab out of a paper cup for breakfast and regrets the FBI's terrible accommodations yet again. Perhaps he can rent a better room for the weekend - somewhere with a kitchen. 

Or he could follow the woman who'd shoved past him for the two jars of the fig-and-pepper preserves he'd been contemplating. She probably has a reasonable kitchen at home, judging by the purchases overtopping her shopping bags. He keeps her at the edge of his sight for a while as he stops to chat and browse at various booths and stalls, but several of her purchases suggest she plans to cook for more people today than he really feels like having to deal with on such short notice. He's on something approaching a vacation, after all, at least for the weekend. 

And he has Agent Wilson's home address. The thought brightens his mood, even if he won't be able to do anything with the beast for a long while. He's too prominent and well-connected to reasonably disappear without considerable planning. Hannibal certainly can't display him in a way that might be linked back to the Chesapeake Ripper, not with the Behavioral Analysis Unit having made personal contact, not with Hannibal himself one of only a handful of investigators who would be linked in some way to both cases. 

He'll be patient. Pay a visit to, perhaps, Houston or San Antonio at some point in the next few years. Pick up a burner car for the drive. Rent an apartment with a good kitchen for a few days through one of those wonderfully convenient online services that won't require any face to face meetings. 

Perhaps he'll stew him up entire with Caribbean spices and give away jerked pork sandwiches and fried plantains at some community event or festival in one of the poorer, browner parts of town. As tempting as it might be to serve him up as cochon de lait it might rather give away the game. 

In an excellent humor, Hannibal turns his back on the jelly-thief and is utterly delighted to find himself faced with a stall selling hand-painted silk ties. 

 

**Saturday, May 14, 2011 - New Orleans, Louisiana, Bywater**

After a leisurely, self-guided architectural tour, Hannibal drops his purchases off at the motel and grabs a shower. He's picked up several recommendations for good meals to be found in Bywater and the Upper Ninth Ward, and he's hoping to disappear for a sort of course-crawl before any of his colleagues attempt to either invite him somewhere or invite themselves to join him. 

He's been enjoying wandering the city without the strictures of their observation. The anonymity of the tourist has been relaxing, as he's been free to shift his behavior and demeanor between shops and stalls and engage nearly all of his less-violent whims. It isn't that he expects they'd find anything sinister in, for example, his purchase of lunch for the three boys who'd tried to earn a dollar or two off him with a bottle-cap tap-dance routine, but with Jack or Jim along he would have simply handed them some cash and kept walking. Alone, he was able to sit in the grass with them and share muffuletta sandwiches while being introduced to every passing street artist or con man. 

Bedelia once referred to his carefully structured public persona as a 'person suit.' It seems an apt metaphor, having traded his polished and tightly tailored wardrobe for something lighter and easier to move in, for the day. For the night, as well. 

He doesn't make it back to the motel until quite late, dropped off by a lively young woman who'd served him a hand pie and stout-infused ice cream at a St. Claude Street tavern at one am before inviting him to see her brother-in-law's brass band play after her shift. He can just see the glow of false dawn out over the city. 

If last night's drinking party notices that they've beat him back to their beds, he'll let them assume it was because of sex, rather than the best live jazz performance he's ever seen. 

They won't be far off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Recipes! Hand Pies, Ice Cream and Muffuletta](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/165921756816/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)
> 
> [A second post for music](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/165923146561/what-the-water-gave-me-chapter-2-archive)
> 
> [A general post about New Orleans, including the French Market](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166116166081/to-people-who-have-seen-new-orleans-on-tv-or-even)
> 
>  
> 
> [A post on race and poverty in New Orleans, plus Where Hannibal Went On His Course Crawl](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166172627936/iesika-this-is-what-fine-dining-looks-like)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I've never seen your wrists before," Beverly says. "I feel all Victorian. I may faint."_
> 
> _Hannibal raises his arms from his sides and turns once on his heel for her inspection, engaging with her playful flirtation. He looks up to where Jim is already sitting in the front seat, inviting him into the game, but the man is uncharacteristically subdued, hunched over and clutching a paper cup of coffee, and all he does is offer a watery smile._
> 
>  
> 
> _"Get in the car," Jack says as he comes up behind them. "You can have a fashion show after we see the body."_
> 
>  
> 
> Or, The team takes a short road trip. Hannibal wears blue jeans.

**Sunday, May 15, 2011 - New Orleans, Louisiana, Gentilly**

Because he sometimes enjoys being exasperating under the guise of friendly helpfulness, Hannibal knocks on Jim and Brian's door at ten am with a cardboard tray of paper coffee cups in one hand and a bag of fresh viennoiseries tucked against his chest. 

To his mild surprise, it's Beverly who opens the door. 

"I would murder you if it wouldn't make you drop the coffee," she tells him flatly, then turns around and goes back inside, leaving the door open. Her hair is wild from being slept on without washing out the styling product, and she's wearing a t-shirt that is too big for her over a short red skirt or dress. Hannibal follows her, bemused, to find Brian Zeller still unconscious, asleep the wrong way round with his head at the foot of the far bed, fully clothed except for his shoes. 

"Movie night?" He guesses. When she gropes wildly in his direction from the end of the other bed, he hands her the sole cup of dark roast. 

Beverly takes a long drink before she answers. "We were waiting up for Jimmy, in theory. We lost him somewhere." 

Hannibal unpacks the pastries, laying them out on top of the folded bag. "Should we be concerned?" 

"Nah, I think he just made a new friend," she says, grinning. He's never heard her voice so soon after waking, before, so he's not sure if the slight hoarseness is usual for her, or if she perhaps spent the night shouting or singing. "I'm glad you got me up, though. I should text him and make sure he's not dead. Just in case." Her eyes light up, suddenly. "Shit, give me that chocolate thing. Before Zee smells it and wakes up." 

"I heard that," Brian mumbles without turning his face out of the pillow. "You can have all the chocolate ever if you just go away or go to sleep." 

"Hannibal, you heard that, right?" Beverly says with exhausted cheer. "In front of witnesses, Zeller. That's legally binding." 

"Only if we can find a notary on a Sunday morning," Hannibal says, solemn. He hands her the requested brioche suisse and is about to head out the door with the last coffee when all three of their phones buzz or chime at once. He and Beverly exchange glances. They all know what simultaneous messages generally mean. 

"Fuck," Brian shouts into his pillow. 

"Poor Jimmy," Beverly says. She rolls over and reaches for her phone on the nightstand even as Hannibal pulls his own out of his pocket and confirms the text came from Jack. "Walk-of-shame corpses are the _worst_." 

The text is simple, straightforward. "LST found Victoria Allain."

"I'll take this to Jack, shall I?" Hannibal says, saluting them with the remaining cup. 

Jack is on the phone when he answers the door, but he mouths a thank you for the coffee and waves him into the room. "No," he says, jaw tucked to his shoulder to hold the phone in place. "Look, just text me the address." He takes the cup as Hannibal looks around, taking in what information he can glean from Jack's belongings and the way he's spread them through the hotel room. Suits neatly hung in the open closet, no surprises in the toiletries, some casual slacks folded over a chair. He sits on the edge of the desk as Jack paces. "I am capable of using GPS," Jack says, irritated, and then falls silent again. "Oh," he finally says, sounding deeply surprised. "Well, I guess we'll meet you there, then." 

"Where did they find her?" Hannibal asks once Jack is off the phone. 

"Someone fishing off a bridge between Baton Rouge and Lafayette saw something in the water and called the local sheriff. They found her downstream a little while later." 

"They pulled her from the water?"

"It's worse than you're thinking." Jack gives him a rueful little smile."You're going to want to change clothes, assuming you brought anything casual."

"What do you mean by casual?" 

"Something you don't mind getting wet." Jack undoes his own tie, and loops it neatly around his hand before laying it back into his open suitcase. 

"Ah." 

Jim's absence provides Hannibal a small window of time, and he chooses to take advantage of it. With a quick internet search, he's able to locate a suitable menswear shop that isn't too far away. He calls ahead from the taxi with his measurements and specifications and only tries on the minimum. He pays the taxi driver for his wait, and tips him handsomely on their return to the motel parking lot, where the rest of the group is loading into the van. 

"I was going to say you should have just come to Walmart with me," Beverly tells him, now dressed in denim shorts. "But you look great. Jesus, did you seriously manage to get pants tailored or whatever in like half an hour?" 

"I made due without adjustments," Hannibal admits. The denim is a bit tight on his thighs, but it will stretch with wear and the pants will be serviceable enough. With any luck he now has enough casual wear to see them through the investigation. One body found in an inaccessible location suggests they will be looking for traces of their killer in the water for some time, and he may not have a chance to resupply. 

"I've never seen your wrists before," Beverly says. "I feel all Victorian. I may faint." 

Hannibal raises his arms from his sides and turns once on his heel for her inspection, engaging with her playful flirtation. He looks up to where Jim is already sitting in the front seat, inviting him into the game, but the man is uncharacteristically subdued, hunched over and clutching a paper cup of coffee, and all he does is offer a watery smile. 

"Get in the car," Jack says as he comes up behind them. "You can have a fashion show after we see the body." 

Hannibal slips into the back, allowing Beverly to share the middle seat with Brian, who is either asleep against the far window or doing a very good job of pretending to be. He watches the city go by with interest, but once they are on the interstate highway Hannibal fishes his tablet out of his bag and starts reading through the latest execrable article Frederick Chilton has submitted for peer review. 

Some bits are so bad he considers reading them aloud so that Jack can share his amusement, but unless he does it very carefully he will leave the others with an impression of mild bullying, and he's done his best so far to avoid showing any hint of cruelty where the other investigators can see - no matter how deserving of ridicule the target may be. 

Outside, the southern sprawl of the city doesn't look all that different from some of the poorer parts of Baltimore. When they had arrived at the airport it had been dark, and Hannibal hadn't had much chance to take in detail. There are elements that remind him of Atlanta as well, though the sheer number of small bridges they cross even in the more populated areas is novel, brown water deep and slow moving. He amuses himself considering the difference in graffiti art styles, the differences in flora as they pass out of the city center into suburbs, tightly clipped lawns browning in the sun and everything so very, very flat and open where it isn't shaded by clusters of trees. There's water between them and the houses, in places. Hannibal isn't entirely sure how one tells the difference between a deep ditch and a shallow bayou. He isn't entirely sure if there _is_ a difference. 

He looks up from his tablet again when Jack makes a sound of surprise. Hannibal glances outside just in time to see the open, grassy land below them run up to a concrete wall and stop. On the other side of the wall, which is perhaps a foot thick, brown water stretches to the horizon, several feet above the level of the land, and the elevated highway becomes a bridge without so much as a join in the roadway. 

There are trees erupting from the water as if this is meant to be a forest rather than a lake, and tall, thick grasses in mats where their limbs don't shade out the water. Eventually they pass out of the trees for a while, and Hannibal finds himself staring out across open water. 

Hannibal has never been to this part of the country. As much as possible, he prefers to stay within the comfort of the city, in close proximity to varied cultural venues of quality. He has seen wetlands before, primarily near Venice, but never before has he felt such a sense of scale. He cannot see land on either side - just miles and miles of waving green and open water to one side, flooded marshland on the other. 

"So this is a swamp," Brian says, apparently awake now. He doesn't sound very impressed. 

"I've made this trip a few times before though and I've never seen it like this," Jack says from the driver's seat. "Germaine said the water was high but I was picturing more like what we saw at the riverfront, where the river was just higher. This is just… the lake taking over everything, I guess."

"I thought they had levees around the water?" Beverly asks.

"They have levees around the people," Jim says. 

Eventually they pass onto dry solid land again, the elevated roadway-cum-bridge touching down among browning grass and dry ditches. There are trees lining the roads thickly, but they look sad and wilted, leaves drooping from the heat and lack of rain. 

Baton Rouge seems to be made entirely of trees and suburban sprawl, everything clean and neatly mowed, until they seem to cross some kind of line from manicured greenery directly to urban poverty. The road here is elevated again, passing over low buildings like the ones at the outskirts of New Orleans, but packed more tightly and interspersed with clusters of shotgun housing. Then they catch up with the winding Mississippi again and, for the first time, cross it. Brian and Beverly hold their breath from one shore to the other over half a mile of dark, swirling water far below. 

"Wow that water's high," Jim says from the front, and Hannibal looks out the window and down. "Look at it, it's over the docks down there." 

Indeed, the river seems to be about a foot from spilling into downtown Baton Rouge, held back by a section of elevated sidewalk that might be the top of a paved levee.

Gradually they leave the city behind for more deep green scenery edging to brown. Hannibal begins to see signs for exits to the towns in his case notes and realizes they must be close. 

"Was Miss Allain found in or near Maringouin?" Hannibal asks. 

"No," Jack calls back from the front. "We're headed further south and west than where she went missing. So far, we don't have any idea where the body was put into the water. I'm hoping we can resolve that." 

Like his question was a cue, the others wake from their road-hypnosis, shuffling for phones and laptops. "I know an ornithologist at LSU," Jim mentions. "Might come in handy." 

"Why do you know an ornithologist at LSU?" Brian asks. 

"Audubon Society. And citizen science migration tracking through Cornell. I keep meaning to come down here for migration season, actually. Almost half of the world's migratory bird species pass through here every year. I want to rent a place on one of the barrier islands to watch the spring fallout." 

"Fallout?" Beverly asks. 

"The birds are so tired when they get here, they just drop out of the sky like little bombers." Jim mimes the flight with his hands. The quiet drive seems to have done him some good, Hannibal notes, his hangover and perhaps post-coital melancholy having passed.

"I don't know what we'd need an ornithologist for," Brian says. 

"Maybe we won't, but he'll know who to talk to for local botany and entomology and stuff. We're probably going to need a hydrologist to figure out where the body was dumped." 

"I hate water recoveries," Beverly complains. 

"I packed the Vaporub," Brian volunteers, holding up a little jar. 

"Thank fucking god," Beverly says. "Doc, you been on one of these?"

"So far, all the crime scenes I have visited with the FBI have been on dry land," Hannibal tells her, entirely truthfully. He knows what a water-rotted corpse smells like, though, and he isn't particularly looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Notes post with pastry and road tunes!](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166174416891/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)
> 
> [All the bonus posts are tagged "What The Water Gave Me" on my tumblr](http://iesika.tumblr.com/tagged/what-the-water-gave-me)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hannibal feels underdressed. Without an extravagant and expensive suit to serve as a prop, he must rely somewhat on his companions to help establish his persona of eccentric and fussy professionalism. These people will expect him to shake hands._
> 
> Or, Hannibal goes for a boat ride!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My text to speech reader is usually pretty good, but this chapter has tripped it up hilariously, so I suspect some folks might need a pronunciation guide... 
> 
> Robideaux = RO beh doh  
> Hotard = HO tard  
> Tête = rhymes with "eight"  
> Maringouin = rhymes with penguin - mar RING win  
> Atchafalaya = pronounced exactly like it's spelled

**Sunday, May 15, 2011 - Iberville Parish, Louisiana, Grosse Tête**

They pull off the road at a truck stop where two State Police SUVs are waiting for them. Since he is in the back, Hannibal waits for the others to unload ahead of him, and then moves to the middle seat to slide out onto the pavement. He freezes in the doorway as an out-of place odor strikes him. Under the smell of diesel fumes and hot asphalt, of green growing things, there is a carnivore stink. Ammonia of old urine, animal musk. He's only ever smelled it concentrated like this in zoos. The others don't seem to notice, so he thinks the odor must be faint to them, or unrecognizable. 

He gets out of the van, smoothes out his travel-wrinkled clothes, and goes to join Jack and the others for introductions. 

Hannibal feels underdressed. Without an extravagant and expensive suit to serve as a prop, he must rely somewhat on his companions to help establish his persona of eccentric and fussy professionalism. These people will expect him to shake hands. 

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter," Jack says as he approaches, "Trooper Robideaux," he indicates the woman officer, tall and blonde, in her late thirties perhaps, with some weathering of the skin and the odor of a smoker. "And Trooper Hotard." 

"Call me Skip," the trooper says, stepping forward to, yes, offer his hand. Hannibal shakes it while he takes the man's measure. Unlike Trooper Robideaux his royal blue uniform has long sleeves, perhaps to protect his fair skin as he is already more-or-less covered in freckles to match his bright copper hair. He has a strong grip, but his smile is easy and confident. 

Once his hand has been relinquished, Hannibal takes a step back while the other agents are introduced, and seizes a moment to wipe his hands on his handkerchief. Brian catches him at it and rolls his eyes, but his annoyance is of the friendly, 'our eccentric mascot,' variety Hannibal has been happy to cultivate, so Hannibal smiles at him and gets a smirk in return. 

"Holy shit, that's an actual tiger," Jim says suddenly. He abandons them immediately to make a beeline for some sort of fenced enclosure far across the huge parking lot. "Why is there a tiger at a gas station!?" 

"Aaaand, we've lost our latent prints expert," Beverly says. 

Hannibal steps around Hotard so that he can watch Jim investigate the chainlink enclosure. Sure enough, there is a reddish-gold mass just visible over the edge of something bright purple and plastic. 

"We should probably hurry, actually," Robideaux says. "We left Skip's partner with the body, and our ride's idling, down the road." 

"I'll get him," Brian volunteers, and sets off. 

"Why _is_ there a tiger?" Beverly asks. 

The troopers look at each other. After a moment, Robideaux shrugs and Hotard grins. "Dunno," he says. "Used to be lots of 'em here, I think." He smiles at the group - and at Beverley in particular, Hannibal notes. "People round here like tigers." 

"Eleven to two last year," Beverly says. "But Auburn whupped your butts." 

Hotard looks delighted. "Oh, them's fightin' words." But Jim and Brian return before he can make good on his threat, bickering the whole way.

"-not nearly enough enrichment," Jim is saying, waving his arms. 

"You can write a strongly worded letter," Brian tells him. "How are we riding? Can I ride with someone else? Doc, I'm riding with you, you're a civilized human being." 

Jack witnesses the behavior of his agents with stoic calm and a mild sigh. "However we're going, it's time to leave." 

They divide up between a pair of patrol utility vehicles for a short drive to the next exit on the interstate, to a road running along the top of the levee. "What river is that?" Brian asks Robideaux, who is driving them. 

"Well," she says in a slow and thoughtful voice, "I'd usually call it Bayou Tensas, but the whole basin's flooded out. Right now it might all technically be the Atchafalaya." She tilts her head, seeming to ponder this as she pulls up onto the grassy levee. There's a boat nearby, black bottomed with a small white steering house, perhaps thirty feet long, with 'Iberville Parish Sheriff' down the side. "Bob, what would you call this patch of water right now?" She calls once she opens the door. 

"This?" The uniformed man on the boat shouts back cheerfully. He tilts his head with his hands on his hips before shouting back, "she a tortue!"

"A turtle?" Hannibal asks, curious. 

Bob, who is wearing a green and khaki uniform, laughs so hard at this he has to double over and put his hands on his knees. 

"He called it a cunt," Robideaux says, without a change in her level, placid tone. She steps down to the edge of the road where it vanishes under muddy water, and catches a rope Sheriff's Deputy Bob, no last name given, throws to her. She's winding the rope into coils as the rest of their party catches up in the second SUV. "Come on, jump in." 

Hannibal hesitates for moment before deciding the value of being underestimated greatly outweighs the discomfort of damp shoes and trousers, and clambers aboard with a misstep and a splash. 

"I learned a fun new word," he hears Brian telling Jim as the others unload. 

It's something of a production to get everyone aboard. Hotard offers Beverly far more assistance than she actually needs, and she rolls her eyes at Hannibal while her back is still turned to the troopers. Robideaux is the last aboard, vaulting nimbly over the edge with the rope in her free hand, letting her momentum shift the hull from where it was resting against the muddy grass and into more open water. 

"Ça me fait de la peine," Bob says with a sheepish grin once Hannibal has helped the others aboard. "Didn't know I'd have to watch my French around the yankees." 

"Ça n'est pas grave. Though that's the first time I've ever been called a yankee," Hannibal says amiably. "I lived in France as a boy, though I never learned _that one_ in school." 

"Cuz if you make it mad it snap ya dick off," Bob explains, and then he steps away to the little wheelhouse to start the two big outboards and get the boat moving. "Y'all hold on," he shouts over the noise. 

It's cooler - or just less oppressively hot, really - once they're moving and well into the shade. Bob takes them parallel to the interstate - now a bridge again - and cuts a path through the swampy forest with reasonable confidence and familiarity, seeming to know where the broadest areas of deep, open water between the trees will be. It isn't until they turn sharply around a copse of trees and cut under the highway at a section raised above its usual elevation that Hannibal realizes the deputy is following the course of the bayou Robideaux mentioned, invisible to the rest of them under the flood water, perhaps only knowable to his memory at the moment.

That's dangerous. The water appears calm, moving smoothly if swiftly, but it's opaque with silt and entirely treacherous, because as far as Hannibal can see there's no way to tell how deep it is or what might be under the glossy surface. 

The water is so high, under the bridge, that Brian is able to reach up and slap a support as they pass underneath. "Careful," Hotard shouts over the engine noise and the wind. "You can get dragged out of a boat that way." 

Hannibal sits against the port side and examines the damage he's done to his shoes. If he cleans them they may be salvageable for wear on the rest of the trip. He can leave them in the bin at their motel before they fly back to DC. 

"Oh wow," Jim says, standing up from his own resting position and stumbling as the boat shifts to avoid some piece of debris. He rests his hand against Hannibal's shoulder, eyes on the sky. Hannibal follows his gaze and spots some kind of large bird hovering above the trees. Mostly white, with deep black at the tips of the wings as if it's been dipped in paint, the hawk hardly seems to twitch as it changes direction and dives, disappearing into the trees in a flash. 

"Lovely," Hannibal says, replaying the flash of motion, elegant and economical, in his mind's eye. That dainty raptor had been sweeping in for a kill. 

"Swallowtail kite!" Jim exclaims. "You don't get them in North America anymore except Florida, and I guess here... I haven't seen one since I was a kid! I definitely have to come back down here when we're done with the case." 

"Oh my god, you are such a nerd," Brian complains, but he's grinning. 

It's another fifteen minutes before Hannibal sees the shining bulk of a larger policeboat through the trees. Bob pulls their smaller vessel up to the side and ropes are exchanged, with rubber bouys hung over the side to prevent the two hulls damaging each other as the water shifts them. 

As he climbs onto the policeboat, Hannibal glances down at the gap and ponders the potential damage of a crush injury. Surely it happens all the time - mostly fingers and hands, perhaps feet, but a skull would pop exquisitely under that kind of weight and pressure and leave a fan of blood and brain over the smooth white hull. 

"Trooper Jackson," Hotard says, nodding his head to another state trooper. He's slim, and young-looking, with close-cropped dark hair and skin almost the same milky-tan as the floodwater. "Ronnie, these are those FBI folks." 

"Nice to meet ya," Jackson says. "Wish the circumstances were better." He shakes Jack's hand when Jack steps forward, and Hannibal leaves them to it, stepping around the two men to follow Brian to the bright blue tarp at the front of the boat. 

He could have followed his nose, even at this distance and even over the smell of the river and the trees. There's a shape under the plastic the right size and shape. Sure enough, once Brian has his gloves on and has pulled back the tarp, Victoria Allain's sightless eye sockets stare up at them. She was lovely in her photographs, and her face is still recognizable even with the bloating and the discoloration of decay. She isn't exposed for more than a minute before the flies are on her.

Hannibal isn't sure, at a glance, how long she's been in the water. It isn't his area of expertise of course - he doesn't often keep whole bodies around in dirty water waiting for them to rot. Still, there seems to be something a bit strange about the condition of her skin, compared to the stage of bloating. One of her legs has been reduced to a mostly-skeletonized femur, but her face is whole except for the eyes. It's still possible to make out the ligature marks around her neck, her fine, dark skin bruised and abraded.

"You're not going to be an easy one, are you?" Brian asks her in a quiet, solemn voice. 

Hannibal crouches beside Brian to fish a pair of nitrile gloves from the man's gear-bag. No one on the team has ever seemed to mind that Hannibal isn't actually certified as a pathologist, at least once Brian realized Hannibal was perfectly happy to cede credit to him for any interesting joint insights, and wasn't trying to steal his job. 

He looks up as he pulls the gloves on, watching as Trooper Robideaux shows Jim and Beverly to the brush where Allain's body was found pinned by the force of the current. Jack is posing some sort of question to Deputy Bob, who is gesturing at the water.

And he watches Troopers Hotard and Jackson bend their heads together in quiet conversation, at the far stern of the boat. 

"Give me a hand?" Brian asks, as Hannibal knew he would. "I don't wanna pop her until we get her back to a decent lab, or whatever they have around here that passes for one." 

At least he won't be ruining a good suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worth noting: This is the first time Hannibal has encountered someone who speaks French in Louisiana and there was immediate dialect confusion. Imma do a post on that eventually. 
> 
>  
> 
> [For now, have some modern jazz fusion and, because there's no food in this chapter to highlight, my own mother's Crawfish Étouffée](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166418919126/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"And you ended up here," she says. "Looking for my granddaughter. Is that what all the fuss down by the water is about?" She looks sick at the thought. "You find her?"_
> 
> _"I'm afraid we haven't located Wanda," Hannibal tells her._
> 
> _"Well, thank God," she says, and sinks down into a plush floral chair with relief. "I'm gonna keep on praying then."_
> 
>  Or, Hannibal goes for a walk, and has to share his motel room.

**Sunday, May 15, 2011 - Iberville Parish, Louisiana, Ramah**

Hannibal goes for a walk once their half of the team is back to shore. Beverly and Jim will be a while longer, as they'd asked to be carried upriver along the path the body most likely took, back to the spot where she was first spotted by a fisherman, and they're waiting for pickup on the body, anyway. 

He wishes he were better dressed for this - but as he walks he realizes he'll probably get a better reaction in his muddy jeans than he would have in a flashy suit. In any case, he isn't far along the gravel road beside the levee before he comes to a narrow bridge that's covered in several inches of high water. 

On the other side of the bridge, he finds a washing machine sitting, inexplicably, in the middle of a grassy field, and then, on through a patch of trees, a row of houses in varying states of age and repair. Most are of the style of southern shotgun house he's seen so much of along the highways, with window air units hanging a bit askew and slightly-slipping siding stained by mildew. There are other strange home-brewed homes built out of modified trailer homes, newer additions built around or over the prefabricated structures. Many of the yards and porches are heavily cluttered by seemingly random items and equipment, but just as many are scrupulously, spotlessly clean, without a hint of decay beyond sun-faded paint, and decorated with colorful pots of flowers or neatly trimmed shrubbery. Every last building is raised at least two feet off the ground. 

He finds two little girls taking turns with a flat-tired bicycle that's too small for either of them. Their bare brown limbs glisten with sweat in the hot afternoon sun. When they catch sight of him, they stare. The smaller of the girls puts her fingers in her mouth and hides behind the other.

"Hello," he says, and crouches down to their level some fifteen feet away. "Can you help me find Mrs. Bercegeay?"

Neither child takes their eyes off of Hannibal, but the older one points down the road to a neat blue shotgun with a citrus tree next to the gravel driveway. 

"Thank you," Hannibal says, smiling, and makes a wide circle around the girls on his way. He jogs up the steps and knocks on the door. 

Behind him, the solemn and silent girls toss their bike into the ditch and run off between two of the houses. 

After a few minutes a woman in her sixties comes to the door. She looks at him warily through the screen, dark eyes shadowed in her dark face. "Hello." she says. 

"Mrs. Bercegeay? Hannibal asks. He holds up his consultant's badge. "I'm with the FBI. Can I talk to you about Wanda, please?" 

Some of the tightness leaves Mrs. Bercegeay's body, and her face eases. "Come on in. Where you from?" 

"I live in Baltimore," he tells her. 

She shakes her head even as she opens the door. "I meant - nevermind. I guess that's rude." 

"Not at all," Hannibal assures her, he steps inside at her gesture and follows her into the small house. It's dark inside after the bright sun. No lamps are lit and all the windows are covered in gauzy lace. It takes a moment for Hannibal's eyes to adjust. The air smells like cheap lemon soap and, faintly, the ghost of bacon fat and cornbread from the kitchen.

The front room is tidy, everything clean and cared for, but also slightly shabby. The people who live here take good care of their things but don't replace them often. There's wooden paneling on the walls of a style he hasn't seen elsewhere since the 1970s, but it's under a fairly fresh coat of paint the color of fresh milk. "I've lived in several parts of Europe," he says to answer her previous question. 

"And you ended up here," she says. "Looking for my granddaughter. Is that what all the fuss down by the water is about?" She looks sick at the thought. "You find her?"

"I'm afraid we haven't located Wanda," Hannibal tells her. 

"Well, thank God," she says, and sinks down into a plush floral chair with relief. "I'm gonna keep on praying then." 

"I was hoping you could tell me about her. There are police files, but, well, they don't paint a very clear picture." Hannibal sits down on the couch opposite her, perched near the edge and leaning forward, forearms on his knees, a posture calculated to invite confidence. "You raised her, yes?"

"So my boy could finish school," she says. "He's got a good job, in the city. Fixes air conditioners." 

"Did Wanda ever stay with him in Baton Rouge?" 

She shrugs. "Some, yeah. She'd catch rides with fellas from down at the bait shop or the truck stop. Running around with white boys, half the time." She sighs, and seems to melt down into her soft chair. "Her mom was a girl like that. I always worried for Wanda. Til she got bigger'n me I'd tan her hide for takin' off with boys, but it never stuck." 

"And do you know anything about any of the young men she spent time with?" 

"I told the police what I know," she frowns down at her hands. Her voice is very quiet. "Not that there was much. Gave them a list of her girlfriends from school and all. I hoped they'd know something they were too scared to tell me, in case I got them in trouble with their own mamas, but I never heard anything back from the police after that." 

"Can we go over it all again?" Hannibal asks, pulling out his tablet to take notes. "There might be something that slipped your mind, or something that didn't make it into the report because no one realized it was important at the time."

"Sure thing," she says, but gets to her feet. "Hang on, though. I'll get us some tea." 

"That sounds wonderful," Hannibal says. "It's a bit warm out." 

"Ain't that God's own truth," Mrs. Bercegeay agrees on her way to the kitchen. 

 

**Sunday, May 15, 2011 - West Baton Rouge Parish, Louisiana, Port Allen**

By the time the team had reconvened, dusk had been approaching and no one had wanted to drive all the way back to the state police crime lab in Baton Rouge without a wash and a solid meal. 

Which is how Hannibal has ended up in the worst motel he's ever stayed in when not actively avoiding some form of legal authority. There had been a dead rat in a trap behind the mini fridge, which itself held some very hairy food left over from a previous occupant. The room has been smoked in despite being marked non-smoking, and there is a definite smell of old urine in one corner. 

But the shower works, and has good pressure. Hannibal is cool and clean and dressed in some of the clothes he'd purchased this morning, since most of their bags are still in New Orleans. Some of the others had bought t-shirts and other attire at the truck stop when they retrieved their rental van and picked up a huge quantity of fried seafood. 

He is toweling his hair off while scrolling through his notes when someone knocks on the door. "You decent, Doc?" Beverly shouts from the other side, and without waiting for his answer, opens the door. 

"I locked that," he tells her. 

"Yeah, mine's broken, too," she says as she pushes past him. Her hair is pulled up with an elastic, and she's wearing royal purple and golden yellow from her t-shirt to her fuzzy socks. 

"If your new friend _'call me Skip'_ could only see you now..." Hannibal takes a step back and watches as she shoots him a glare and goes directly to a puttied-over spot on the wallpaper. 

"I told you, Jimmy!" she shouts at the wall. "Right through!" Then she turns and crouches, sighting down her arm with one eye closed. There is a two inch hole in the ceiling in the corner where she ends up pointing. "Well, it probably didn't hit anyone else, at least." 

"Is that a bullet hole, then?" Hannibal asks, walking over to inspect it. 

Beverly gets to her feet and starts attacking the room with a spray bottle of luminol and a black light. "Somebody kakked it in my room. Arterial spray all up the wall. I mean, they washed it off, but they used chlorine bleach instead of peroxide and there was enough stain left in the carpet that I knew to look for it. You check for bedbugs yet?" 

"With a magnifier I borrowed from Jim," Hannibal admits. "So far so good, at least on that front, though we definitely have rats, and no doubt other vermin." 

Beverly shines the black light onto the bedspread. They stare at the resulting glow. 

"I'll be right back," Beverly says, and heads out into the parking lot. 

She returns a minute later with a rubberized sheet from their crime scene gear and spreads it over the bed with great drama, then sits on it before pulling her sidearm from the back of her pajama pants and resting it on the nightstand. "There." Satisfied, she turns to look at Hannibal and her eyes go wide. "Holy shit, you have knees." 

Hannibal looks down to where his seersucker walking shorts do, indeed, end just above the knee. "It seems I do."

Beverly grins like a wolf. "Fully articulated and anatomically correct?"

"Miss Katz, that is quite a question to ask a man in his own bedchamber." 

She laughs at the formal tone and stretches out on the bed. "Come on," she says, "we're bunking up. I've only got the one sheet and you won't carry a handgun." 

"I'd do more damage than good with it, if I had one," Hannibal tells her. "I've never had much interest in firearms, I'm afraid." 

She waves a hand like he's being very foolish but can be forgiven. "Seriously. I can't leave you in here alone all night. Someone'll probably eat you." 

Hannibal graciously inclines his head before turning out all the lights except for the lamp on Beverly's side. "Thank you," he says as he lays down. "I don't know what I'd do without you here to defend my honor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I don't have anything especially against Port Allen, but there were four motels right in a row, off I-10, with frighteningly terrible room reviews. I borrowed heavily from those because they were so inspiring, but in my head the room looks like that shithole in Venice, Louisiana where my family stayed over after a party for the 50th birthday of my mom's twin cousins with obnoxious rhyming names. We found moldy food and a dead animal in that one, too. 
> 
> [You know the drill by now... Notes and music post!](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166494679191/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"High water," Jack ventures._
> 
>  
> 
> _“More than high. There's a million and a half cubic feet of water moving under the bridge downtown _per second_ , which is just about enough to tear our entire flood control system to shreds. We've had to take some steps that are probably going to screw your investigation."_
> 
>  
> 
> Or, the BAU team gets in over their heads and calls in a specialist

**Monday, May 16, 2011 - Baton Rouge, Louisiana**

The State Police crime lab in Baton Rouge isn't up to Quantico standard, but it isn't the worst place they've ever worked. Hannibal sits in on the autopsy, keeping Brian company and observing. He keeps his commentary minimal for most of it - Brian is having too much fun lecturing the local investigator he's displaced at the cutting table. 

"She was weighted and dropped," he finally announces. "After livor mortis." 

"You don't think she was caught on something under the water?" Hannibal asks. He shifts in his chair, crossing his legs instead of scratching at the insect bites lingering after yesterday's adventure in the wilds. 

"Unlikely. She went in before rigor, I think. Six hours after death would be the absolute outside." He motions Hannibal over. "She was probably tied around the ankle - sheared off within the last day or two and floated free. It's hard to tell just what happened there because of how the fish or whatever stripped whatever flesh was left on the ragged end of the joint." 

Hannibal rolls his sleeves back and slips on a pair of gloves so he can examine the break himself. The condyles at the distal extremity of the femur are entirely clean and bare, with little trace of the tendon and cartilage that would have connected to the joint in life, but Hannibal can find no cut marks or even evidence of tearing while the living tissue was strong and still bound to the bone. 

So, her leg had probably been intact until it rotted to the point where the joint fell apart under whatever water forces or scavengers were at work on it. There is more flesh on the upper thigh, but what's left on the distal portion of the bone is ragged. 

"She was strangled?" he asks, gesturing to the dark marks at her throat.

"Looks like. I sent photos back for Julie but I'm guessing half-inch rope - nylon maybe, since there weren't any fibers, but they also might have been washed out." Brian grimaces. "She's spotless. But I did find some interesting things." 

"Oh?"

"Sexual assault," he says reluctantly. "Repeated or aggravated - probably both, actually. And she was beaten, besides. The discoloration isn't just from the water, she was pretty bruised up." 

Hannibal examines her himself. "Aleesha Coleman wasn't sexually assaulted." 

"No, but she was also found burned up in her own car. If the cases are connected, she might have fought abduction - done something that made the unsub panic and try to dispose of evidence quickly." 

Hannibal's suspicions lie along similar lines, so he nods. "His blood would have been in the car." 

"It's a completely different MO," Brian says with a shrug. "The only connections we've got are physical proximity and the victim profile." 

"Two very poor, very young black women from a town with only a thousand people in it." Hannibal steps back and strips off his gloves before going to wash his hands. "It's very probable they knew each other and likely there was some sort of family relationship. New people don't often move into towns like that." He dries his hands with brisk, efficient movements and rolls his sleeves back down. "I believe we will find a connection between these two girls and Wanda Bercegeay." 

"They probably all went to the same schools," Brian points out. "They're close enough in age, they might have even been there at the same time." 

"A good place to start," Hannibal agrees. It will make for good busywork for the team and might even turn up something useful, and it will give him the opportunity to learn at least some of what he wants to know. "Shall we break for lunch? I believe we're expecting the expert Jim's friend sent along to us, any time now."

*

Lunch turns out to be fried chicken in foam boxes with french fries and coleslaw and buckets of iced tea. It is barely preferable to a fast food hamburger. Hannibal hasn't seen the interior of a kitchen in a full week, and it's starting to grate on him. He's going to have to insist on a room with a kitchenette at least, since they're in a city of reasonable size again. Jack had arranged this morning to trade their large van in for two smaller utility vehicles, so he won't even have to figure out where this city hides its taxis when he goes looking for groceries. 

When he gets back to Baltimore he's going to check on Miriam, and then he's going to take a long bath. And as soon as that's done, he's going to leave Jack a lovely gift practically on his doorstep so that their team will be prioritized to the Chesapeake region again, and make himself a very fine dinner. Two birds killed with one stone, as it were. There's an idea - he could use Isley. It's not as if anyone else would get the joke, but that's never stopped Hannibal from enjoying himself, before. 

Jack and Jim join them in the conference room with a thin, dark woman in professional dress, her hair in short, natural curls. She assesses the room on entry as if she has been combat trained. "My birdnerd friend found us a river expert," Jim says as he introduces her. "This is Dr. LaShonda Jenkins. She's with the Corps of Engineers." 

Hannibal stands to greet her with a shallow incline of his head. "Hannibal Lecter," he says, with a helpless gesture at the mess of their lunch. "I would offer you my hand..." 

"Offer me some fries instead," she says, "I'm starving." She flashes a smile at Brian when he pushes one of the boxes toward her, then sits down across from them and kicks her feet up onto one of the empty chairs. Eschewing the table, she rests the foam box on her knees to examine the contents. "Y'all picked a hell of a week to find a body in the Atchafalaya Basin, but I guess I'm not surprised." 

Hannibal pours her a cup of iced tea and reclaims his seat as the others also sit down. Beverly sweeps in at the last minute, muttering to herself, and folds herself into the chair at his left. She brightens when he passes her a chicken sandwich. 

"What makes you say that?" Brian asks. "About this being a hell of a week?"

"Mm," Dr. Jenkins says, holding up a finger while she chews. "Well, as I was telling Jimmy here, we've got a really unique situation on our hands. It's kind of a long story, but the Mississippi Valley's been getting hammered for a few months now, and tributary river valleys like the Missouri and the Ohio, too." 

"High water," Jack ventures. 

"More than high. There's a million and a half cubic feet of water moving under the bridge downtown _per second_ , which is just about enough to tear our entire flood control system to shreds. We've had to take some steps that are probably going to screw your investigation." 

"And what did taking steps entail?" Jack asks her, frowning at her like whatever the Army Corps of Engineers did, they did it just to make his life difficult. 

"We opened the Morganza Spillway on Saturday and let more of the Mississippi than usual make its way down the Atchafalaya, to bypass Baton Rouge and New Orleans on its way to the Gulf. Can you pass me that coleslaw?" 

Hannibal hands her the foam cup, earning himself a lovely smile.

"Thanks," she says as she helps herself to a generous portion. "It's only the second time we've ever even cracked those gates open. They haven't budged since the seventies. I got to watch." She fans herself. "That was about the hottest thing I've ever seen." She looks up and winks, not at Hannibal, but at Beverly beside him. Interesting. Hannibal pulls himself somewhat out of his daydream of a meal plan for Sheldon Isley. "Hydrology is usually a pretty slow and steady field of study." 

"And this is going to make tracking where Victoria Allain's body was dumped more difficult," Jack says, lowering his brow as he waits for confirmation. "I suppose it would change the speed of the water? And I know there's been some flooding." 

"Oh," Dr. Jenkins says, eyes wide and apologetic. "You don't - oh, honey, I don't think I'm getting across the scale we're talking about here. The only reason we're not all under thirty feet of water right now is because two days ago, the Corps of Engineers deliberately flooded more than _four and a half thousand square miles._ Right on top of your crime scene." 

Sometimes Hannibal marvels at his own fortitude; it takes great force of will, in situations like this, not to laugh aloud at God's grand and vicious jokes. 

If he weren't stuck here in the middle of it, this would be better than a whole chapel full of dead grandmothers. 

*

"It's not without precedent," Hannibal tells the group while Dr. Jenkins is busy directing the state police in printing flood maps. "There was a killer caught in Ecuador after a flash flood washed four bodies out of his makeshift graveyard."

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, do not jinx us," Brian hisses. "That guy killed _at least_ a hundred people, and he's _at fucking large_ right now." 

"I heard they caught him again?" Beverly asks.

"Except that nobody can prove it or say where he is now," Brian argues. "He totally escaped again! You know he did." 

"Ooh, maybe that's our guy," Jim says. "Exciting." 

"Will you shut up?" Brian demands. "This is going to be such a huge mess." 

"Tell me about it," Beverly mutters. "I _hate_ pulling them out of moving water. Unless we luck out completely and that woman's been eating hair and fibers I'm basically useless. Maybe we could have tracked her insertion point if the river system were behaving normally, but all the rivers and lakes and bayous and ponds and fucking ditches are one big muddy mess. Soil and pollen and vegetation, insects, everything's already in the wrong place. And all stirred up."

"We can continue working the human angle," Hannibal reminds her. "If we can find the killer through the lives of the victims, we won't need to find them forensically." He does not mention that he would much rather be interviewing families than wading through muck, but he doubts he needs to. 

"Yeah, except even if we find this guy and he tells us exactly where he put the bodies, we're not going to be able to find them," Brian complains. "We won't have them for physical evidence when the case goes to court. Their families won't get their remains back. If we don't find them before they wash out to sea, they're just gone forever." 

That isn't how it will happen, Hannibal is almost sure. Victoria Allain's body had been in a perfect state - bloated and buoyant, but intact. The bacteria in her gut had begun to digest her from the inside out, but the cool, deep water had edited the timeline. 

Older or better secured bodies will never see the light of day again. What's left of them will be caught in underwater log-jams or buried in mud and silt. Food for the insects and the fish and the reptiles and the birds - this primordial place has no shortage of mouths to feed. 

They could catch the murderer tonight, but without the bodies they would have very little case. Jack won't like the optics of leaving the area now without at least appearing to make an exhaustive search for all the remains of all the missing girls. Brian's concerns are likely a decent bellwether for the rest of the team, as well. They will not want to leave without expending some time and energy on a quest to bring the families of the deceased 'closure,'

What a ridiculous word, 'closure,' as if witnessing what is left of one's most beloved has some sort of power to heal the wounds of loss. It certainly hadn't for Hannibal. 

They've stumbled into one of those particular areas of strong emotion where even a mildly incorrect social response would stand out to these naturally suspicious people with whom he has surrounded himself. Better to extricate himself until the passions die down, or risk a misstep. "I'm going to check in with Jack on our game plan," Hannibal tells them, and exits with a hint of a bow. 

He finds Jack in a narrow hall with his phone to his ear, spine bent and shoulders curved inward in such a way that Hannibal immediately suspects another woman has been taken or more remains found. When Jack senses Hannibal's presence he straightens his back and expands to fill his space, until he realizes just who has walked up on him and relaxes to an in-between posture. "One sec," he tells the phone before muffling it against his shoulder. "We're not making it back to New Orleans tonight. Gerry's going to send our luggage along with a runner - you need anything that isn't in your room?" 

"No," Hannibal says. "My things are all packed except for three shopping bags in the closet." On the off chance the courier breaks into his locked suitcases, he's fairly certain the scalpels he packed are reasonably camouflaged by the small dopp bag of emergency medical supplies. "I try to always be ready to travel on short notice. Please pass my thanks on to Sergeant Grant." 

"You hear that?" Jack asks the phone, and smiles. "Yeah, I'll tell him. Can you text me the contact info for your guy? I'll give him a call before we head that way. Thanks." 

He hangs up and pockets his phone. "Gerry says next time you're in town he's going to throw a crawfish boil just so he can introduce you to his sister." 

"I'd be delighted to meet her, I'm sure," Hannibal says, which makes Jack huff a laugh. "Have we had a new development?" 

"Another body was recovered - St. Mary Parish, this time. Wildlife and Fisheries turned it up in the water, and they brought him to shore before the Sheriff's Department or anybody thought to call us."

"Him?" Hannibal asks. "Unlikely to be our same killer, then." 

Jack nods. "I'm seizing control of the investigation anyway. That flood zone passes through eight sheriff's jurisdictions and three different troops of state police, with Wildlife and Fisheries in the mix now, too. Someone has to take control of the body hunt or it's going to be a complete logistical nightmare." 

"And that someone should be us?" Hannibal asks. Perhaps if he's very proactive he can wriggle his way to coordinating family interviews and not have to spend who knows how long muddy and sweating, with insects crawling on his skin. "Jack, we are the only ones without boats or local knowledge of the waterways." 

"Yeah," Jack says, "I know. Gerry's got a friend down that way he thinks will be willing to help us out, though - a mechanic in some town called Bigarno, near where the latest body turned up. He charters out for fishermen and tourists so he ought to have a boat for us." 

"And this friend of Sergeant Grant's won't mind us potentially bringing human remains on board his vessel?" Hannibal asks. "I could imagine that being a sticking point." 

"That's the best part. He's ex homicide. Gerry said he was his best detective until he decided to retire."

"Wonderful," Hannibal says, rubbing his hands together and thinking the exact opposite. Another fat old man to tell them how to do their jobs. "If you don't mind, I think I'll make a grocery run before we attempt another night of small-town accommodations." 

Jack raises an eyebrow and gives him a knowing little smile before handing him a set of keys. "I asked the lieutenant after that face you gave the chicken. There's a big outdoor produce market a few miles down Airline that's open until six." 

Hannibal closes his eyes for just a moment and lets his mouth curve. "Thank you, Jack. You know me so well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient, y'all, and for your lovely comments and kudos. 
> 
> I grew up three miles from where they are in this chapter. Since we're in my hometown, [ here's some of the local music of my teenage years.](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166653378571/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)
> 
>  
> 
> [about the flood](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166848328336/this-is-a-companion-post-for-my-hannibal-fic-what)
> 
>  
> 
> [All the bonus posts](http://iesika.tumblr.com/tagged/What-the-water-gave-me)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Who shall I ask for?" Hannibal asks as he tucks away the file he's been reviewing._
> 
> _"His name's Graham," Jack tells him. "Work your magic. Get him on board."_
> 
> Or, Hannibal makes contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bigarno is a made-up town. The R is silent. I smushed together several places and plopped it into an empty spot where I wanted it. Mwa ha ha, I have power like unto a god!

**Monday, May 16, 2011 - Iberville Parish, Louisiana, Louisiana Airborne Memorial Bridge**

They take Interstate 10 - everything here seems to be on Interstate 10 - back across the Mississippi and past the terrible motel and the site of yesterday's adventures. Near the place where Victoria Allain's body was first spotted, road becomes a long pair of concrete trestle bridges over water that has drowned the surrounding forest.

"The water is higher," Hannibal observes. Yesterday, they had passed under this bridge easily; this evening there is a meter at most between the surface of the water and the bottom of the bridge.

"Dr. Jenkins said it was going to keep rising," Jack says. "Those floodgates are still open. The water is still coming."

Beside their two narrow lanes, there is a separate, identical bridge for the eastbound traffic a short distance away, with occasional gated connections between the two. At about the halfway point, one exit ramp marked "Whiskey Bay" peels away directly into the great flood lake. It's the only egress Hannibal sees for miles, and at least for the moment it would seem to be a dead end without an amphibious vehicle. He wonders what happens when drivers inevitably smash into each other at highway speeds. There is no shoulder, nowhere to pull aside, except at a few scattered points. And yet, there are people leaning on the balustrade at intervals, fishing rods in hand. 

The two bridges come together twice to rise high above the water's surface, Hannibal assumes to allow vessels to pass. Other than those moments of interest the ride is entirely, mind-numbingly flat and uninteresting. 

They eventually cross another levee, presumably, because the land under them returns, and they are able to take the next exit and turn south.

"Gerry's guy still isn't answering the phone," Jack mutters. He passes the offending piece of technology to Hannibal so he can put both hands back on the wheel. "Keep trying for me?" 

"Who shall I ask for?" Hannibal asks as he tucks away the file he's been reviewing. 

"His name's Graham," Jack tells him. "Work your magic. Get him on board." 

"If I can get him to answer," Hannibal says. He looks down at Jack's recent calls, at the number labeled 'Will Graham' with its seven incomplete call attempts. "Hm." 

Graham's number starts with the same area code as the FBI Field Office in New Orleans. The crime lab in Baton Rouge had a different area code, so presumably they've long since left the area where a landline would have that prefix. 

Instead of making a call, Hannibal types out a text. 

_'Mr. Graham, Sgt. Grant spoke highly of you and recommended your services as a guide and charter boat captain.'_

He lets the text sit until he sees the typing indicator, and then until that indicator fades.

Hannibal waits a few seconds longer, and then he attempts the call. 

"Who is this?" a wary voice says after the third ring. 

"Mr. Graham, my name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I'm here with Jack Crawford, who is a longtime friend of Sgt. Grant. He suggested we speak to you regarding chartering a boat." 

There's a pause - a long pause in which Hannibal does not hear movement or even breathing on the other end of the call. 

"Virginia area code," Graham finally says. "That's a long way away." He pauses again, more briefly this time. "Not the accent I would have expected." 

"Mr. Graham, we're currently about fifteen minutes from Bigarno. May we meet you in person, please?" 

This time there's a clear hitch of breath during the pause. "No." Graham says. "I'm not chartering night now. Too much other work to do." 

"If we can just speak to you briefly, then - perhaps you may be able to recomm-"

"I said no," Graham says sharply, cutting him off. "I'm not interested." 

The call disconnects. Hannibal lets his hand fall to rest on his thigh and looks out the window at the sun drifting low enough now to flicker through the trees. 

"Well, you got him to answer," Jack says. "What did he say?" 

Hannibal clears the phone screen and tucks it back into the cupholder where Jack has been letting it rest. "He's not interested in our business," he paraphrases. 

Jack huffs a sound of acknowledgment. "Well, I'm sure we can find somebody who wants to take government money. You should have mentioned we're law enforcement. He used to be a cop - that might mean something to him." 

Hannibal is sure Will Graham is already aware of who they are. The initial unanswered calls may have simply been due to the unfamiliar number, but Graham apparently looked up the location of the area code. Jack's number is prefaced by three digits only used in a very narrow geographic area around Quantico, Virginia. 

Graham was a detective - a good one, according to Grant. He almost certainly was able to make a correct guess as to what that stunning coincidence might mean. 

He does not want to be involved - either with law enforcement generally, or with this case in particular. 

That's going to backfire on him rather spectacularly. Hannibal smiles to himself at the opportunity to pay the man back for his minor rudeness, even if it's only a small revenge. "You have the address of his shop?" Jack nods in confirmation as he pulls into a turn. "I think I'll stop by once we're settled. Perhaps a face-to-face meeting will be more successful." 

**Monday, May 16, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

The St. Mary Sheriff's Department had, at least, had the sense not to let the body move off the boat it had come in on. The craft has a strange shape, like a huge flat canoe with a giant outboard motor, long and low. It's not a style of boat Hannibal is familiar with, and he suspects it would be swamped on the open ocean or the Chesapeake Bay, or perhaps even a lake like Pontchartrain in high wind. 

The Wildlife and Fisheries agent who greets them is young and blond and very apologetic. "We figured he was a boating or hunting accident," he says. "Actually at first I thought he was a deer or something that got caught in the high water. I only pulled him on board in case he was another spoon-nosed catfish - someone's been running trot lines upriver of here that keep catching them. It wasn't until we got him on the boat we even realized he was a person." He frowns. "Hank lost his lunch when we rolled him over." 

"Your partner?" Jack asks the man, who had introduced himself as 'Dan.' Apparently, Hannibal thinks, enforcement officers who drive boats don't have family names. 

"Yeah. He had to go pick up his kids from school. His woman works late at the Indian casino." Dan says. Beverly and Brian exchange a look behind him. "I don' know what else to tell you. I marked the coordinates for where we found him, but it's mostly dark. We could get out there with a couple boolye, I guess, but it's just the middle of the lake." 

"A couple of what, please?" Hannibal asks, not sure if the man's accent is giving him a little trouble. 

"Boolye. Booger lights?" He tries. "Uh, Q-beams?" At their blank looks, he finally says "big ass flashlights," waving toward his boat. 

"Tell you what," Jim proposes. "Break out the big ass flashlights now and we'll examine the body so it can go on ice?" He looks at the rest of them for support for this plan and gets nods all around. "Where will he go when we're done?" 

"Uh, parish coroner's in Morgan city," Dan says. "That's down south from here - but I heard the road's flooded out." 

"There a closer morgue?" Brian asks, frowning. "Hospital, maybe?" 

"There's a medical center in Franklin. Don't know if they have a morgue, though…" 

"Is there a funeral home?" Hannibal asks. It's a small town, but that sort of work tends to be locally done. 

"Oh, sure," Dan says. "I'll call the director if you want? He's my cousin."

"Perfect," Jim says, clapping his hands together. "Glove up, everybody! The sooner we're done the sooner I can let down my hair and empty the minibar." 

This corpse is in worse condition than Victoria Allain. Male, and apparently Caucasian, though it's hard to tell specifics with the damage to his face. He was heavyset, bordering on overweight, and his abdomen has been ripped wide. Ragged intestines suggest predation, but they'll have to get him into better light and working conditions to determine whether he was opened by the scavengers who have had at his soft parts or if they took advantage of an existing abdominal wound. 

"Geeze," Beverly says, "I got nothing here, guys. We can cover the area and come back in daylight looking for trace, but I doubt there's much after being in the river." 

Something bites Hannibal on the forearm rather more ferociously than the mosquitos that have been harassing him since they left the safety of their air-conditioned vehicles. He does not slap at the sting, instead bringing his limb around into the light so he can see what thinks it can make a feast of him. 

It looks like a pale housefly, except for its rather lovely eyes. In the bright white of the q-beams they shimmer molten gold and iridescent green. 

"Ah damn," Dan says after Beverly slaps at her neck. "We're gonna have bugs everywhere if we don't get him covered back up. This time of night, with the lights out..." 

Hannibal watches the little insect, intricate mouthparts moving like some sort of delicate automaton. It's only a moment before she has apparently had her fill, disappearing from his skin and away into the night. 

The funeral van arrives as they are transferring the body onto a plastic sheet. "I'll ride along," Beverly volunteers. "I doubt this guy'll be thinking about forensic isolation." 

"I wanna see him in the light," Brian says, joining her. "I'm not up for another full autopsy without some sleep, but we should see him put to bed before we tuck in. Hope their freezer's good." 

"You need me for anything else tonight?" Dan asks, sounding hopeful for a negative. 

"Got a hotel recommendation?" Jim asks. "We've been having pretty terrible luck in that department." 

Dan makes a face. "Not Fontenot's. All the oil and log workers stay there and they'll be off work until the water comes down. It's full of, ah, ladies at night. My sister Jenny works the front desk at the Cypress Inn. They keep it clean, clean. Unless you want to go up to the casino, they have some real nice rooms there." 

"The Cypress Inn is close?" Jack asks. When Dan nods, he puts his hands in his pockets and starts toward their rental vehicles. "That works for me." 

"No minibar," Dan tells Jim, "but if you tip somebody they'll run down to the liquor store for you." 

"Bless you, my child," Jim says happily. "Com'mon, folks, my per diem isn't going to blow itself."

"May I take the other truck?" Hannibal asks. "I'll catch up with you shortly. Perhaps I can find us dinner as well." 

Jack turns around, still walking, and tosses his keys to Hannibal, who snatches them out of the air. "Right, Jimmy, give me your keys," he hears as the other men walk away. 

"A moment of your time before you go, please?" He asks Dan before the agent can reach his own truck. "I'm hoping you can help me with some directions."

"Sure," Dan says. "Where you wanna go? My cousin works at Peg Leg Pete's, they do good plate dinners." 

"I have a man's business address," Hannibal tells him, "but I imagine he's closed up shop for the night, by now. I don't suppose you might know him?" 

"I mean, it's a small town but I don't actually know _everybody_ " Dan says, grinning. "But go on, shoot." 

"He's a mechanic in town," Hannibal says. "Will Graham." 

Dan has a definite reaction to the name, but it's hard to tell, in the dark, just what feelings his expression indicates. "What do you want him for?" Dan asks. "He might not like havin' folks knockin' on his door so late." 

"Probably not," Hannibal agrees cheerily. "Nevertheless. A friend of his suggested we talk to him about a boat, and we may need it early in the morning." 

"Oh," Dan says, relaxing. "Yeah, sure. Let me draw you a map, though. He doesn't stay in town. And don't tell him I sent you out there or he's not gonna fix my prop the next time I hit a log."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Companion post about the enormous disaster that happened in 1927 and the enormous disaster that didn't happen in 2011](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166848328336/this-is-a-companion-post-for-my-hannibal-fic-what)
> 
> [The Pepper Jelly Appreciation Post](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166860116411/iesika-pepper-jelly-appreciation-post-how-to)
> 
> [This fic now has a Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/jessie.iesika/playlist/2WvnBsdaa54gk64Fja2cif). It's not very organized and it's going to keep growing, but there are currently about a hundred songs on it from Louisiana and a few from Mississippi, plus the eponymous What The Water Gave Me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Graham watches him in absolute stillness for what Hannibal estimates to be about ninety seconds. The length and intensity of the man's gaze is well beyond the measure at which, from Hannibal's experience, most people become deeply uncomfortable._
> 
> _Eventually Graham lets the barrel of the gun dip until it rests against his thigh, but Hannibal has no doubt Graham could have it up and aimed again in a blink, so he keeps his hands where they are. "Come in out of the mosquitos, then," Graham says as he walks backward up the last few steps. "They'll eat you alive."_
> 
> Or, Hannibal makes a new friend. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't actually planning to update for a few more days, but everyone's been so pumped to properly meet Will, and it's been such a quiet night in the fandom, I kind of couldn't help myself. 
> 
> Note: Bigarno is a made-up town. The R is silent.

**Monday, May 16, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bayou ~~Chêne~~ Chien **

The map Dan provided is clumsy and not to scale. When it tells Hannibal to cross the levee, he at first thinks he might be looking at the wrong road. 

A check of his phone's mapping system turns up two important bits of information - first, that cellular signal is extremely weak here, and second, that the road he is looking at does not exist. Perhaps not unexpected, in hindsight. 

He drives slowly up onto the crest of the levee to see what he can see, and sure enough, the road descends on the other side into a flooded area - but at the edge of his headlights, the road emerging again from the water, a narrow ridge of asphalt without any painted markings. 

Hannibal parks at the top of the ridge for a moment, considering the advisability of driving into a flooded swamp in the dark, with only a hand-drawn map and perhaps no way to call for help. Were he on foot, it would be a simple question; he knows his body and its capabilities. He knows his senses and his reflexes. But taking an unfamiliar vehicle into an unfamiliar and treacherous terrain, in an environment with which he lacks meaningful experience, probably is not worth the small pleasure of irritating a mechanic. 

Meeting a man who would choose to make his home outside the protective barrier that divides the civilized world of farms and small towns from the wilds - catching him off guard in his most private space, alone and after dark - a former police detective who reacts to calls from the FBI with wary suspicion and avoidance...

That might be interesting. 

Hannibal cracks open the driver's side door and eases the little crossover down the far side of the levee, into the water. Looking down through the gap between the footwell and the bottom of the door, he can better judge the water's depth. Slowly, he creeps the vehicle forward, but except for a brief dip into a pothole that raises a splash, the chassis remains safe and dry. 

The dark road can't make up its mind if it ought to be paved or gravel. Other than a few other shallow dips into flooded-out stretches, raised surface of the road stays above the worst of the water. He passes an oil well at the side of the road, still and quiet in the dark like some great, insectile alien hulk, and then, after many long minutes, Hannibal reaches a slightly wider patch of road where flooded wheel-ruts run away through the trees like rivers in microcosm toward a distant square of light high above. 

He has only pulled a few dozen feet up the rough, muddy drive when he hears a howl in the darkness. Hannibal spots motion in the bright patch of woods illuminated by his headlights as several animals run along a bend in the drive. One of them detaches from the shadows and ventures into his path, taking an aggressive stance. The effect of its ferocious barking is somewhat ruined by the size of the dog, which is some sort of small, dark, poodle mutt with short, curly hair. 

Hannibal lets the vehicle creep forward until he's mere feet from the animal, but it stands its ground. He finds himself smiling at it in amusement when it throws its head back in a defiant howl. 

Lights blaze to life at the end of the muddy drive. Hannibal ponders his circumstances and shifts into park before cutting the engine. When he jumps down from the truck and shuts the door, the little dog howls one more warning as it runs away up the drive in sudden terror. 

He is mindful of the condition of his shoes, and the hem of his fine suit trousers, but there is such a thing as making an impression. Perhaps there is a passable dry cleaner in town. 

Hannibal rounds the bend on foot and finds a strangely constructed house. The second story is wood under brown paint and has a sturdy but rough look; nothing about the structure is ornamental. One entire side of the house is taken up by a porch enclosed in fine wire screening, and a flight of wooden stairs leads from that down to the cement foundation. The ground level is open to the elements except for a small central area, which looks to be some sort of storage shed with a heavy padlock holding it shut. A beat-up old green pickup truck is parked under the house on the bare concrete foundation, and Hannibal can see tools and workbenches, neatly organized, with stacks and bales of building supplies like lumber and chicken-wire neat against the walls of the shed. 

And on the stairs, dressed in boxer shorts and a white t-shirt, there is a man holding a shotgun. Hannibal raises his hands to shoulder height, palms out, and watches the man's wide eyes follow the movement. He isn't what Hannibal expected - younger, certainly, being fit and very much in his prime. His dark curls make an unruly halo, backlit by a bright halogen bulb, and he is unshaven. 

The little black poodle is between the man's bare feet. There are three other dogs on the stairs or under the house, all moving restlessly, a ragged cloud of canine agitation with this man at its center.

"Hello, Mr. Graham," Hannibal says. "We spoke on the phone." 

Graham narrows his eyes at him, then curses and lowers the barrel of his shotgun - though only by a few inches. "Dr. Lecter." 

"Indeed! Might we speak inside?" He takes a step forward, and Graham's hand twitches, bringing the barrel of his gun up to cover the movement. 

Behind him, he hears a low growl that is much less humorous than the little poodle's braggadocio. 

Hannibal goes still. "Please," he asks in his most pleasant and polite tone, entirely as if he has not noticed the pair of massive dogs that have crept up behind him. "My colleagues and I are in a bit of a spot. If you hear me out and are still uninterested in helping us, I shan't bother you again." 

Graham watches him in absolute stillness for what Hannibal estimates to be about ninety seconds. The length and intensity of the man's gaze is well beyond the measure at which, from Hannibal's experience, most people become deeply uncomfortable. 

Eventually Graham lets the barrel of the gun dip until it rests against his thigh, but Hannibal has no doubt Graham could have it up and aimed again in a blink, so he keeps his hands where they are. "Come in out of the mosquitos, then," Graham says as he walks backward up the last few steps. "They'll eat you alive." 

"They are certainly making a spirited attempt," Hannibal admits. He allows himself to rub briefly at the welt left by the biting fly by the waterside. "You're a brave man to venture out with your limbs uncovered." He glances up as he mounts the stairs, his eyes on the strong muscles of Graham's calves and thighs, and higher still. He would make such wonderful hams. 

"They don't bother me," Graham says, voice flat. He slips through a screen door onto the boxy porch, letting the door fall with a bang behind him. Holding the door open would have allowed in the cloud of insects hovering in the light, so Hannibal can't fault him too terribly for this one moment of rudeness. His prior rudeness, on the other hand… 

At the top of the stairs, Hannibal slips through the door and lets it close rapidly behind him, though he cushions the landing with a touch of his fingers to muffle the sound of impact. 

Graham falls into a wooden rocking chair and rests the gun across his knees. When Hannibal remains standing, he gestures sarcastically to the other rocking chair. Inclining his head in thanks, Hannibal takes the seat and crosses his legs. "I'm sorry to trouble you so late. Our business is rather urgent, I'm afraid." 

"I'm sure," Graham says. 

"I believe you've already intuited for whom I work?" 

Graham blinks once. He didn't expect to be called on that. "I know who you are," 

"Really?" Hannibal asks. "Me, in particular? You did your homework after our earlier conversation?" 

"No," Graham says. Hannibal waits, but nothing else is forthcoming, and the man's expression of wary displeasure does not change. 

Graham intends to make him work for this, then. Very well. 

"Mr. Graham," he begins. "I am a behavioral forensics consultant with the FBI, attached to the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the National Crime Lab under Agent Jack Crawford. We are investigating a cluster of disappearances and now two confirmed murders of young women from local communities." 

It's slight, but Graham reacts to that, eyes darting to Hannibal's again as if to weigh his sincerity. A lever, perhaps. Is it that they are girls or that they are local?

"Yesterday, the body of Miss Victoria Allain, of Maringouin, was recovered some miles north and east of here. Her death, combined with evidence from the recent death of her third cousin, Aleesha Coleman, has largely confirmed our suspicion that there is a serial killer hunting young women in the southern, central part of this state." 

Graham shifts in his chair, leaning forward and looking past Hannibal. He hefts his shotgun and uses the end of it to bump open the screen door an inch or two. A nose appears in the gap immediately and three dogs force their way inside, one after another, before the door can bounce shut. The first pair are medium sized, with a hint of beagle about one and the other some sort of hound admixture that has resulted in grey ticking on the chest and incongruously orange eyebrows. The last is the little poodle, which leaps immediately into Graham's lap, heedless of the gun in his hand, and stares at Hannibal with a significant sense of territorialism. 

Graham allows his chair to rock back and sets his gun aside, propped within reach in the corner in what seems to be a customary spot. He scratches at the animal in his lap absently, unconcerned by the muddy prints it is smearing on his bare legs. "There was some fuss," Graham surmises. "A lot of attention drawn. Somebody important went missing."

"Isn't every life important?" Hannibal asks, and watches Graham watch him with delightful suspicion. "All the suspected victims we have identified so far have been from very poor and disadvantaged local communities. The killer is targeting vulnerable women in areas that have been largely abandoned by the police, at least for the purposes of offering protection. He beat and raped Victoria, strangled her, and dispose of her remains like garbage. The police and local FBI have been callous and incompetent _at best._ In fact, the local section head has told me repeatedly that we are wasting our time looking for 'girls like that.'" 

Graham stares down at the dog in his lap, rubbing its ears until it calms, though it is still staring at Hannibal from under the man's hand. "I can recommend someone with a boat," he says quietly. 

Hannibal uncrosses his legs and rocks his chair a few times. "You won't help us yourself?" 

"I did tell you how busy I am," Graham says, but he isn't holding that intense eye contact now. "People keep hitting debris, and three folks already forgot to take their boats out from under cover before the floodwater got here. They float right up," he explains. "Until they either crush against the roof or break through. Lots of work to do." 

"More important work than saving lives?" Hannibal asks. 

"Probably not," Graham admits. "But it's my work. I'm not a cop anymore. I just fix boats." 

Hannibal rocks forward, leaning toward Graham to invite confidence. "Do you mind if I ask why?"

"Yeah," Graham says, "I mind. It's none of your business." 

"Fair enough," Hannibal allows. He rocks idly and reaches a hand out slowly to the ticked animal, who has been watching his movements with a calm and steady gaze, her eyes soft and dolorous as only a hound's can be. The animal shies away for a moment, then leans in closer to sniff at his fingers when Hannibal stills his hand. Her nose is cold and wet when it bumps Hannibal's hand, her huffing breath hot through his fingers. 

"Wouldn't have figured you for a dog guy," Graham says, sounding amused. Hannibal thinks he may have won a small point.

"I haven't had one of my own since I was a small child," Hannibal admits as, now accepted, he begins to pet the animal. "My lifestyle hasn't been terribly accommodating." Something about the shift in Graham's body language, visible out of the corner of Hannibal's eye, suggests he may be able to extend his stay if he continues petting the animal. "May I ask her name?"

"Bahbin," he says, the vowels round and the finish nasal, hinting at a French origin to the name. While Graham has a mild accent, it is shaded differently from anyone he's met here, so far, though he hadn't particularly noticed until that bit of local color slipped into his tone. Bahbin looks up at her name and wags her tail, though her face still looks piteously sad. After a moment Graham indicates the beagle mix. "He's Rooster," he says, with reluctance. "And she," he says to the little poodle mutt, "is Possaday."

It takes Hannibal a bit of mental editing. He has no idea how Bahbin's name might translate, but 'Possaday' sounds enough like 'possédé' to make a guess based on context. "Your dog is named 'Possessed.'"

Graham's mouth twitches. "More of a description." He stands, Possaday in his arms, and turns to let her drop onto the rocking chair, where she stands and glares at Hannibal as if she knows he is the reason her cushion has moved. "It's late. You oughtta get back to town. Sorry I can't help you." 

Hannibal gets to his feet. Perhaps with a night's sleep he'll be able to think of a strategy for a third recruitment attempt. "Thank you for your time," he says. He puts his hand on the screen door, then turns back to regard Graham one more time. "We'll probably have to go out canvassing tomorrow, so I may as well ask you now. Do you know of anyone who's gone missing near here, in the last few weeks?" 

"No," Graham says, frowning, "No women from town that I know of, and I think I would have heard. You should ask at the Fontenot-tell motel. Might not be a local girl." 

"Not a girl," Hannibal tells him, and watches Graham go briefly still. "A man - Caucasian, about five ten, stocky to overweight. Brown hair with some grey." 

Under Graham's hand, Possaday growls until he resumes his petting. "No," he finally says. "No, that doesn't sound like anyone I know. But there are a lot of oil and timber workers that come and go. Could be one of them."

"Perhaps," Hannibal agrees. He slips out the screen door and down the steps. There are two dogs waiting there, and one stands as he approaches. 

"Don't try and pet her," Graham calls from the porch. "They're not all as friendly as Bahbin." 

"I can see that," Hannibal says. He stands still, hands at his sides, watching the dog back without staring. Like the rest of Graham's dogs this one appear to be a mutt - perhaps a bull terrier crossed with something even bigger. The posture she is holding was amusing on the evil little poodle; on her muscled frame, it is less so. 

He would win a fight - he has a blade, and he's fast. But not fast enough to get back up the stairs before Graham has that shotgun on him again. "Excuse me please, miss," he says, keeping his voice light.

Graham whistles once, sharp and short. Not only does the huge dog immediately drop her aggressive posture and bolt up the stairs past Hannibal, but several other dogs erupt from the woods to rush past him, up to the screen door, where Graham lets them inside. 

The bright halogen floodlight on its creosote-covered pole stays lit at least until Hannibal reaches the truck and drives away. Hannibal is not sure if Graham is helping him leave safely or preventing him from doubling back under cover of darkness.

[](https://wormsin.tumblr.com/post/168359477392/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-and-on-the)  
Thank you [wormsin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormsin/pseuds/wormsin) for the amazing artwork!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This fic now has a spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/jessie.iesika/playlist/2WvnBsdaa54gk64Fja2cif)
> 
> [This chapter on Tumblr, including some special tracks just for Will.](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/166935795811/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Am I to be your victim, then?" Hannibal asks her, holding his arms out for access as he catches her intent. This is much better than if he had volunteered the information himself._
> 
> _"Yeah, I'm gonna get ya," Beverly says cheerfully. She takes hold of his left arm with her left hand and reaches under his right arm with hers. The movement brings her slim body flush against his back, and the smell of her apricot shampoo to his nose. "Knife in," she says, poking him with the butt end of a ballpoint pen some four inches left of his navel. "Up and over." She drags the pen up until it nudges his ribs on the opposite side._ Brian scratches his beard as he watches them. "That's pretty intimate."
> 
> _"And then guts everywhere. Slow painful death, shallow grave, alligators eat your face."_
> 
> Or, what's been eating John Doe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bigarno is a made up town. The R is silent.

**Tuesday, May 17, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

The Cypress Inn is small and the building is old, but as Dan promised the rooms are clean. The mattress is old, but not worn out, and the sheets are soft and freshly washed. It's all reasonably adequate and entirely forgettable. 

Before setting out to face the day, Hannibal makes himself a breakfast out of the previous afternoon's groceries - fresh bread and creole cream cheese with handmade preserves and an early peach. The room has a sizable wooden desk in one corner; if it looks like they will be here another night, Hannibal will need to find somewhere to purchase a hot plate and a half-way decent skillet. 

Beverly is going over the dead man's effects when Hannibal finds the funeral home, and Brian is wrist deep in the abdomen. Hannibal congratulates the mortician on his assistance in the investigation and shepherds him out of the mortuary before returning to observe. 

"You were out late," Beverly comments while he scrubs and gloves. 

Brian steps back to let him get a good first look at the body under proper lighting. "We were saving you some pizza but you never showed." 

"I ate yours for breakfast," Beverly confesses. "Didn't think you'd want it." 

"I made other arrangements," Hannibal says absently. He crouches to get a better view, ignoring the sewer stink of ravaged bowels and the foul sweetness of rotting meat. "Soil in the abdomen," he notes, earning a nod from Brian. With gloved hands, Hannibal feels the ragged tissue where soft and nutritious organs were ripped free rather than neatly cut. "Shallow grave? Dug at by scavengers and washed out by the flood." 

"Probably," Brian agrees. He directs Hannibal to the head, where the soft tissue of lips, cheeks and tongue have long been lost to scavengers. "Here, look, something with proper teeth got him here. Coyote or a dog maybe, but who knows in this jungle? And there were drowned maggots all in the sinuses."

"Blowflies, looked like. Second instar at the oldest," Beverly volunteers without looking up from whatever it is she is tweezing off a ruined sneaker. "In this heat, maybe three to six days? Jimmy's hunting down a courier to take some samples to a local entomologist at LSU. She ought to be able to narrow it down. Jimmy's nerd friends from the internet are coming in handy." 

"I haven't flipped him over yet," Brian admits. "We could have boring beetles or worms on the dorsal. But I doubt he was in the ground more than a week at most before LaShonda's people drowned our little forensic ecosystem." 

Hannibal takes a magnifier to the corpse's skin, testing the color and pliancy, looking for burst vessels. "Not strangled," he ventures. "Not restrained, at least not with anything compressing at the more traditional points, but this could be finger-bruising on the left forearm. Do you have a cause of death?" 

"Honestly?" Brian waves a gloved hand toward the man's torn abdomen. "Unless we get something interesting back on tox, my best guess is trauma, centered right here, which is a shame since it's all gone to mush. But I do have what's probably a knife nick to the costal cartilage," he points the spot out to Hannibal, "Between 9 and 10 here, at the bottom." 

"I see it," Hannibal agrees. He feels the notch with a gloved fingertip. "Smooth and sharp, yes? No serration." 

"I don't think so. So a hunting knife, a fishing knife, something like that, maybe. Going to be hell to narrow that down." 

Hannibal hums in agreement. He's seen several men already this morning with folding knives or even full-sized knife holsters at their belts. 

"It's a weird angle," Brian says. "I don't know if we're looking for a southpaw, or what. Knife like that would usually be turned down, not up, and most people stab vertically when they go that deep. Our guy dragged up." He mimes the motion, and then taps the spot near his own stomach where, on their corpse, the sharp knife dug deeply into sturdy cartilage. "A lot of force there, on the up." 

There are quite a few ways to gut a man. The method and angle Brian is modeling would be terribly clumsy and inefficient.

Beverly's hand, currently ungloved, thankfully, lands on his shoulder. "Here, Doc, model for me," she says as she steps up behind him. 

"Am I to be your victim, then?" Hannibal asks her, holding his arms out for access as he catches her intent. This is much better than if he had volunteered the information himself. 

"Yeah, I'm gonna get ya," Beverly says cheerfully. She takes hold of his left arm with her left hand and reaches under his right arm with hers. The movement brings her slim body flush against his back, and the smell of her apricot shampoo to his nose. "Knife in," she says, poking him with the butt end of a ballpoint pen some four inches left of his navel. "Up and over." She drags the pen up until it nudges his ribs on the opposite side. 

Brian scratches his beard as he watches them. "That's pretty intimate."

"And then guts everywhere. Slow painful death, shallow grave, alligators eat your face." 

"That wasn't an alligator," Will Graham's low and pleasant voice says, behind him. Hannibal tries to turn and see the man who has snuck up on them all, but Beverly still has a grip on Hannibal's arm and around his middle. He shifts and sidesteps, gently breaking her hold, and straightens his clothing before turning to face their newcomer.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Beverly says. 

"Mr. Graham," Hannibal greets him, stepping forward with a slight smile. "How wonderful of you to join us this morning."

"Thought I'd come be nosy," Graham says. He's dressed in tan cargo shorts and a short-sleeved shirt with very prominent breast pockets, and mesh sneakers with no socks. Hannibal also notes that the man has not one but two knives on his belt, one short and sheathed, the other, larger blade folded in a leather case at the small of his back. Graham walks past Hannibal without so much as glancing at him, and doesn't look at Beverly or Brian for more than a moment each. 

Graham, it seems, only has eyes for one man in the room. He approaches the mortuary table and examines the body, ignoring Brian as he puffs himself up on the other side. 

"Agent Katz," Hannibal starts, "Agent Zeller, may I introduce Will Graham, who has been invited to assist in our investigation." 

The introduction causes Beverly to stand down. Brian becomes, if anything, more agitated. "You with the sheriff's department or Wildlife?" 

"Oh, I'm a mechanic," Graham says. He crouches and tilts his head, examining their John Doe closely, paying special attention to his head and hands. "He was already dead, huh? What happened, a bear dug him up?" 

Brian and Beverly are staring at Graham in frustrated confusion. Hannibal finds himself charmed and delighted. "You think it was a bear?" He hadn't even been aware bears ranged so far south. 

Graham stands up and shrugs. "Could have been a big dog, but a dog this size would have torn the body up, cracked some bones to get at the really good bits. And they tend to go around in packs - this was just one animal. Ate what they could get in a hurry and skedaddled. And then I guess the water came." 

Beverly looks reluctantly impressed. "Mechanic, huh?"

Graham turns and gives her a slight smile. "Mechanic and fishing charter, yeah." 

"Oh!" Beverly says, excited. "You're our boat guy. Jack said he had a boat guy." 

"Mr. Graham has not yet consented to employment," Hannibal hedges. He's fairly certain that pushing Graham or making grand assumptions will be fast ways to drive him off. "Though I hope this visit is a sign in our favor?" 

Graham shrugs. "I thought about what you said. Slept on it." 

"Is _that_ where you were out so late?" Beverly asks. She circles around behind Graham, back to her work station, and makes a show of looking Graham up and down from behind before raising her brow at Hannibal, who keeps his expression placid. 

"I imagine Mr. Graham is also something of an expert on dogs," Hannibal suggests. 

"Little bit," Graham concedes. "Enough to know this wasn't one. Look, dogs are worriers. If you give them something big to eat they grab it and shake it, tear chunks loose, and they don't get spooked like bears do. " He looks up at Brian. "And it definitely wasn't an alligator. You'd know if an alligator had got him." 

Jack chooses that moment to stick his head into their makeshift morgue. He blinks at Graham's presence. "Agents…" 

"Agent in charge Jack Crawford," Hannibal introduces. "This is Will Graham."

Jack's glower brightens. "Nice to meet you. At least something's going right today." He shoots Hannibal a meaningful glance. Hannibal had texted him the night before that the results of his recruitment excursion had not been ideal. 

"Eight hundred a day," Graham says. That draws Jack's attention back to him, and brings back the glower. "Charter and guide, gas, and nearly anything you'll need out on the water, included." 

"He's already given us some insight," Beverly offers, but she's looking at Hannibal when she says it. 

"I'll be missing my day job," Graham says. "Profitable time of year, too, even without the flood. Everybody's gearing up for summer, kids' be out of school any day now."

"Fine, fine," Jack mutters, waving a hand. "I'll get you a consulting contract and the map projections our hydrology consultant put together. We want to trace the likely route this body took, see if we can find the source or anything interesting along the way."

Graham looks around at them. "So a four man group, then?" 

"Actually, we'd better finish up here," Brian says, gesturing to the open body on the slab. "I've got a few hours work left, at least." 

"Jimmy should be back soon," Beverly says. "I want to review the local pollen database." She gently shakes a vial in the light. "Might be able to narrow down our burial location a bit." 

"Three, then." Graham frowns at Jack and Hannibal in their suits. He especially frowns at their shoes. "You can wreck your church clothes if you want, but I don't want you slipping. You wanna change or whatever and meet me at my shop with your paperwork?" 

"Works for me," Jack says, glancing at Hannibal, who nods. 

They break from the mortuary. Jack heads for his vehicle, phone already to his ear, but the Inn is close enough that Hannibal chooses to walk. It's not entirely a coincidence that Graham is walking the same way. "May I ask what really caused you to change your mind?" Hannibal asks him as they walk, keeping pace but several yards apart. 

Graham smiles up at the sky. "You looked like you'd come back and try again. I didn't want you stirring up the dogs in the middle of the night." 

Hannibal chuckles quietly to himself. "I don't find you that interesting," he lies. 

"That's good," Graham says, just before he peels off down a side street toward his shop. "Wouldn't want to think the FBI was interested in me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come look at some cool bears and learn how to make creole cream cheese.](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/167135438456/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hannibal hides dangerous physicality behind refined harmlessness. Whatever Will Graham is, his mask lives at the far end of that spectrum of prejudice. Perhaps his prickly physicality and insistent bluecollar rusticallity hides his sharp mind from casual inquiry. There can be benefits in hiding one's intelligence, though Hannibal has never been able to stomach it._
> 
> _What is Graham protecting? There's something vulnerable to him, or he wouldn't have greeted Hannibal's overtures with such a show of force._
> 
>  
> 
> Or, Hannibal gets a look at Will's day job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bigarno is a made-up town. The R is silent.

**Tuesday, May 17, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

Jack has the discretionary budget to hire another local consultant, but his phone call to get the paperwork moving apparently sparks some sort of other internal ruckus at the top levels of the FBI. Hannibal leaves him to it and changes into khakis and topsiders. 

Jim is waiting for him in the little lobby when he's done, and Jack is nowhere to be seen. "Think it's just you and me," he says when Hannibal approaches. "Jack's in a state. Wilson's trying to get us recalled again. He's making a big fuss about us wasting manpower." Jim rolls his eyes. "There would be a lot of men in the world who would be a lot easier to work with if _literal_ dick measuring contests were actually a thing." 

Hannibal waits while the man puts away his paperback and gets to his feet. "More efficient, perhaps, but less hygienic." That earns him a grin as Jim falls into step with him. 

Graham's 'shop' doesn't seem to have a name, but Hannibal is fairly certaine they've reached it when they come to a large, corrugated metal building next to a fenced yard with a dozen covered boats on trailers parked in rows. When they approach the gate, Bahbin and another, larger dog Hannibal has not yet been introduced to run to greet them. The big dog is not happy to see them, but Bahbin wags her tail shyly from the middle of the driveway. 

"Oh, wonderful," Jim mutters, "Junkyard dogs. "You weren't with us yet on that case in West Virginia at the scrap yard, were you? Brian may have a scar." 

"These dogs are well behaved," Hannibal assures him. He's not entirely sure Graham won't set the hounds on them eventually, but he will probably wait until he gets his check for the day. At Jim's skeptical look he crosses to the chained and padlocked gate and holds his hand out for Bahbin, who approaches with her body low and tail wagging furiously. 

Hannibal palms a bit of sausage from the bag in his pocket - not his own, unfortunately, but a local blend and part of yesterday's groceries - and slips it to her. The larger, mastiff-like dog's posture changes as interest overtakes aggression, and soon he is close enough for Hannibal to toss him a little treat as well. 

"Is that a sausage in your pocket or is the dog just happy to see you?" Jim asks, sounding incredibly pleased with himself. He crouches down next to Hannibal to offer his fingers to Bahbin to sniff. "Seriously, though, how did you know you'd need dog bribes? Or do you always keep sausage in your pants?" 

"Graham has quite a few dogs. I met this young lady last night." The larger dog seems more amenable to introductions now that the subject of sausage has been raised. He approaches close enough for Hannibal to offer him another bite while Bahbin is distracted by Jim making cooing noises and scratching her ear. 

The mastiff takes the bite gently and cautiously, watching as if he expects Hannibal to snatch it away, or perhaps make a grab for him while he is close. He backs up once he has it and bolts it down. Hannibal offers him the last piece of meat, and he steps forward much more eagerly the second time. Their timing is perfect, because Graham exits the hangar-like building beside them just as the beast is licking the last traces from Hannibal's fingertips through the fence. 

Jim stands up, but Hannibal pretends not to notice him, remaining still in his crouch with one hand extended, until Bahbin pushes the bigger dog aside to lick his fingers as well. 

"What are you doing to my dogs?" Graham asks, sounding exasperated. At his voice, the animals at the gate lose interest in their visitors immediately and run along the fence to his side. The larger one throws his shoulder against Graham's legs, but Graham barely sways. 

Hannibal stands and wipes his hand on a handkerchief, smiling. "Just saying hello." 

Graham frowns at them. "Where's your boss?" 

"Caught up in departmental politics, I'm afraid," Hannibal tells him. "The adventure will be yours and mine, today. And my colleague, Agent Price." He steps aside to make the introductions. "Agent Price, Will Graham." 

Graham nods in acknowledgement, but just as when he was introduced in the mortuary, he doesn't step forward or offer a hand. "Com'mon in," he says. "I'll look at your contract and you can look at mine, and then we can get going." 

They follow Graham through an open bay door in the metal building, which turns out to be one large open space, with just one door, to what is probably a bathroom. There is no waiting area; this is not a space intended for customers. Graham takes a seat at the battered desk in one corner, leaving Hannibal and Jim standing before him like children in the principal's office. 

As a consultant, Hannibal has little input or interest in the paperwork, so he looks around the workshop instead to see what he can learn of Graham from his space. Several boats, large ones and small, are up on trailers or rails, and there are two motors partially disassembled on a large workbench near the wall. Hannibal wanders over to have a look at the innards of the machines, but when he turns something catches his eye. 

Behind the largest boat, against the building's back wall, Hannibal finds what looks like a huge, dented propane tank on its side on a small trailer. There is an upright oil drum welded to the side of the tank, and huge doors with wooden handles set into the side of both. Hannibal opens the door in the tank with some effort; it glides smoothly on oiled hinges, but the metal itself is extremely heavy. Inside, he finds the racks and hooks he was expecting, and a strong smell of ash and flesh. 

"Careful poking around back there," Graham calls. He approaches from around the boat, Jim in tow. "I've got insurance for the boat, but that's not going to cover if something falls on you or you cut yourself open." 

"I was admiring your smoker," Hannibal tells him. "You could fit a full-grown hog in this, I think." 

"That's what it's for," Graham says. "I usually lend it out in the fall for La Boucherie and someone does a couple cochon de lait or a fowl de cochon, with a turducken inside." 

"Marvelous," Hannibal says, truly pleased. He props the door open and inspects the welding, and how everything fits together. The vents are made from what looks like car exhaust pipes, and there's an engine mounted to the trailer with a chain that he imagines must be for converting the large compartment into a rotisserie. 

"A turducken," Jim says, amused, "that's a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey, right?" 

"Stuffed inside a pig," Graham confirms. "Or I can get most of a couple'a deer in there at a time. Though I mostly use it for sausage. You can live pretty cheap out here if you can get your own game." 

"Jesus Christ that's a lot of meat." Jim shoots Hannibal a look. "Sounds like one of your dinner parties. Heavy on the protein."

"You cook?" Graham asks. "Or," he looks Hannibal over, assessing. "You got a woman does the cooking for you." 

"I dabble," Hannibal admits. "And I generally do my own cooking.." 

"If Michelin went to houses he'd have three stars," Jim says. 

Hannibal offers a polite smile and a small gesture to minimize the praise. "Food is important to me. Traveling for work can be a bit difficult - I'm usually very careful about what I put in my body." 

"Don't eat at Jake's, then," Graham warns. He considers for a moment, then adds, "actually that goes for all'a y'all. Unless you enjoy old fish." 

"Only in very specific preparations," Hannibal says, ignoring the face and noise Jim is making. "Did you build this grill and smoker, yourself?" 

"It's kind of a sideline, when I find the right scrap. I do smaller grills, too. The barrels are easier to come by than the big tanks."

"I may have to place an order." Hannibal says, patting the thing appreciatively. He could process quite a bit of meat at once. Maybe he'll give out charcuterie baskets at the FBI offices for the holidays. His earlier thoughts of Agent Wilson roasted lechón style return, a happy mental image with a plump apple in its mouth.

"I have a hard time believing you own a vehicle with a trailer hitch," Graham says, amused. "But sure, we can talk. For now, we oughtta get on the water before the sun gets any higher."

 

**Tuesday, May 17, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bayou Chêne**

They take Graham's truck, three abreast on the ragged bench seat with Bahbin in the back. The cleanliness of the interior surprises Hannibal; dried mud clings to some of the grooves and crannies in the floor, but the seat and dashboard are clear of dog hair or dirt. 

He's not entirely sure why he's surprised, actually. Graham certainly hasn't demonstrated any slovenliness beyond his willingness to let his pet muddy him the night before. His workshop had been tidy, if a bit cramped. Hannibal finds himself watching Graham in the reflection of the window, pondering his own apparent susceptibility to certain cultural preconceptions and stereotypes. 

Hannibal has often hidden himself in camouflage built of assumptions, though his 'person suit,' as Bedelia had named the construct of Dr. Hannibal Lecter visible to the world, makes use of a very different set of concepts and prejudices. A little fussy, a little foreign, so that he is exotic and eccentric instead of strange. Friendly, polite, helpful and generously hospitable - boldly dressed and socially present in a way that a man hiding something certainly would not be. 

Hannibal hides dangerous physicality behind refined harmlessness. Whatever Graham is, his mask lives at the far end of that spectrum of prejudice. Perhaps his prickly physicality and insistent bluecollar rusticallity hides his sharp mind from casual inquiry. There can be benefits in hiding one's intelligence, though Hannibal has never been able to stomach it. 

What is Graham protecting? There's something vulnerable to him, or he wouldn't have greeted Hannibal's overtures with such a show of force. 

"You know," Jim says, "I'm normally a cat person, but I like this one." Bahbin has just the tip of her nose pressed through a narrow gap in the cab's rear window, and Jim keeps turning to pet her on it. "She's so quiet." 

Graham laughs abruptly, doubling up until his chest nearly hits the steering wheel. Hannibal's gaze is drawn to the radiant lines from the lateral canthi of Graham's eyes, the deep rhytids that form parallel and secondary to the nasolabial folds, the whiteness of his teeth. 

"I'm missing something."

Graham just shakes his head, still grinning, sending his unruly curls bouncing. Hannibal catches himself smiling, too. 

They pull into a muddy lot that Hannibal takes for gravel until he climbs down from the truck and recognizes the dusty calcium smell of crushed shell. Bahbin leaps down from the truck and bolts across the lot and down a long wooden walkway floating on styrofoam blocks and anchored to the shore by way of a hinged ramp. 

Hannibal follows Bahbin as Graham unloads a few things from the back of the truck. He assumes the dog knows where she is going. Sure enough, she jumps off the pier onto the deck of a grey-green boat, where she paces with tail wagging, scenting and investigating as she goes. 

The craft is unlike Hannibal has ever seen - phenomenally ugly, with a shallow, snub-nosed hull that curves up to a nearly rectangular deck, and a single wide, obtuse angle forming the slight point of the prow. There doesn't seem to be a curve anywhere on the entire machine. The deck itself stretches from stem to stern, level with the edge of the boat and girded with a rail only a few inches high, which seems useless to prevent anyone or anything from sliding across the flat surface and overboard. 

From roughly the midpoint of the boat, the raised deck drops away into a sort of well with deck all around it. The helm stands in that well, a sturdy column with a sort of high stool behind it at a height for leaning rather than sitting. A blocky windscreen with a transparent door in its center crosses just in front of the helm from port to starboard, leaving enough space above the floor for Bahbin to run underneath and jump back up onto the raised deck to wag her tail at Hannibal when he reaches her. 

Graham catches up and leaps lightly onto the side deck, an ice-chest occupying both hands but not seeming to affect his balance. He steps down and stows the chest in the gap Bahbin had used as a sort of dog-door under the windscreen, and it fits so perfectly there that Hannibal begins to wonder how much of the ugly boat, with its visible welds and flat, matte paint, was custom made or modified by its owner. 

Hannibal stays on the dock to offer Jim a steadying hand as he steps onto the boat. When it's Hannibal's own turn to climb aboard, he wobbles a bit on the first step for the look of the thing. Graham is quick to step up, catching him by the hand. 

"Brace on my shoulder," he says, and Hannibal does, resting his hand and a portion of his weight there and allowing Graham to steady and guide him by the hand until they are standing hip to hip. It's the closest Hannibal has been to him; his warm-body and fresh-sweat scent is shaded by an unexpected melange of chemical odors, many Hannibal can't place. Engine oil, he thinks, and what's probably 'unscented' sunscreen, but the rest is a tangle. "Let me get some seats set up and go over a few safety rules, and we'll head out." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Some notes about boats, smokers, and pigs.](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/167395417361/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)
> 
> [This fic has a Spotify playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/user/jessie.iesika/playlist/2WvnBsdaa54gk64Fja2cif)
> 
>  
> 
> Hannibal doesn't know enough about dogs to figure out Bahbin's ancestry beyond "hound," but she is a soppy-faced Bluetick Coonhound/Bloodhound cross, maybe with some Basset and a little lab in there, who knows. The important thing is, if you have ever spent much time with a coonhound, you know why Will was laughing so hard. If you haven't... wait for it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I guess I always thought they were like lions or something. King of the swamp. What the heck eats alligators?" Jim asks._
> 
> _"Oh, lots of things. Raccoons get a lot of the eggs, herons and egrets'll get the little ones, until they get big enough to eat herons and egrets. But at that size? Turtles, maybe, and people, but mostly bigger alligators. Nothing eats more alligators than alligators."_
> 
> _Hannibal returns to his seat, pleased and amused by the turn the conversation has taken. "Cannibalizing one's own young isn't often a very useful survival strategy."_
> 
>  
> 
> _The look Graham gives him is hard to read._
> 
>  
> 
> Or, Will and Hannibal (and Jimmy) go hunting.

**Tuesday, May 17, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bayou Chêne**

Graham takes them directly to the place where the body was found, at the edge of a large lake near town. The lake has expanded into the woods beside it. Graham maneuvers the boat between the thick, greyish trunks of what he mentions are tupelo trees, and loops a rope around a low branch instead of casting an anchor when they stop to go over Dr. Jenkins's charts. 

Jim is standing at the front of the boat, looking around with a pair of binoculars and occasionally making noises about birds. Hannibal has mostly tuned him out. 

"I'm curious," Hannibal asks, when he has oriented himself and confirmed that Will's strange little house is most definitely in the flooded area. "Do many people live in the floodway? I would imagine it's hard to get insurance." 

Graham shrugs. "It's mostly camps, where there's anything. It's hard to get permits to build anything new. I've only got power because I'm on an oil road. The state owns a lot of the land, but there are people still living where they've lived for a hundred years." He rotates their chart and starts marking it up with a pen, drawing in curved, abstract shapes that don't make sense to Hannibal. "They send letters sometimes trying to get me to move, and a deputy came out before they opened the spillway telling me to evacuate." 

"And yet, you stayed." 

"Well, I moved the smoker and my lawnmower to the shop so they wouldn't rust out or wash away." Now that there are several of them on the map, Hannibal thinks Graham may be drawing in elements of topology missing from the official charts. If that's right, then Graham has a truly excellent memory for geography. He's also adding little squares and hatch marks that are probably buildings or other landmarks. "Whoever built the house knew where they were building it, and I can come and go by boat if the road goes." 

"And your dogs?" Hannibal asks, amused by Graham's complete lack of concern at being subsumed by a natural disaster. 

"They can handle themselves. If it gets bad I'll take more of them to the shop." Graham surveys the maps, then rolls them up tightly with an air of satisfaction and shoves the whole roll into a length of pipe welded onto the side of the helm, where it shares space with a pair of fishing rods. "Agent Price," he calls, "we're about to get underway, if you're done." 

Hannibal is about to take his seat when Jim lowers the binoculars and turns around, looking pleased. "Hannibal, you want to see an alligator?" 

Hannibal has to admit that he does, so he climbs up to take a look. The binoculars aren't necessary to spot it, but through the lenses he can see more detail. He has seen such reptiles in captivity, of course, but never in the wild. Only the narrow head is visible, and that only just above the surface of the water, nostrils and eyes clear of the water without exposing more of the animal to view than is necessary.

"Makes me a little nervous on this little boat," Jim admits. "It's so low to the water and there's no real railing. What if one of us falls in?" 

"Oh, he won't bother you," Graham says, offhand. "Out in open water, a little thing like that? He'd take off in a second if one of us jumped in to go swimming." He opens the ice chest and gets a can of soda, which he slips into a foam sleeve and drops into a cupholder on the dash made of another piece of pipe. "They hunt in the shallows. Anyway, if you can see a gator, you're fine. They're ambush hunters." He crosses the boat to where they are standing and tosses a piece of ice into the air before catching it. "Here, watch." 

He skips the ice across the water with a practiced throw. It bounces once before it plunks into the water a few feet from the gator, who immediately vanishes below the surface of the water. "See? Little three footer like that? He's shy. Not too big something else couldn't eat him." 

"I guess I always thought they were like lions or something. King of the swamp. What the heck eats alligators?" Jim asks. 

"Oh, lots of things. Raccoons get a lot of the eggs, herons and egrets'll get the little ones, until they get big enough to eat herons and egrets. But at that size? Turtles, maybe, and people, but mostly bigger alligators. Nothing eats more alligators than alligators."

Hannibal returns to his seat, pleased and amused by the turn the conversation has taken. "Cannibalizing one's own young isn't often a very useful survival strategy." 

The look Graham gives him is hard to read. He helps Jim down from the deck and then fishes a bottle of water out of the ice chest which he hands to Hannibal, still dripping. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" he asks, his eyes locked on Hannibal's. 

The world slows down. 

No one is in sight. It's just the three of them in their little boat in the middle of nowhere. 

Jim is unarmed and completely lacks fighting experience, but Graham has two knives, including the one sheathed at his hip for quick access. There are two guns aboard that Hannibal has spotted so far. 

If he kills them both, there is enough rope handy to weight the bodies with the craft's anchor or other tools and sink them in the lake. Hannibal doesn't know much about boats, but he watched Graham carefully as he piloted them to this point, and he's confident he could get himself ashore. If all else fails, he's a good swimmer, and he has maps of the area, now including conveniently marked buildings where vehicles may be stored. 

From there, the lack of cellular reception would work in his favor, and he would have until perhaps eight pm until their failure to return to temporary headquarters would concern Jack and the others enough to put out a search and find the boat. They'll find blood, unless he's extremely lucky in the upcoming fight, and the hunt for him will start, but first as a victim rather than a suspect. He'll have time to disappear. 

"That Hobbs girl doing alright?" Graham asks. He doesn't look away as he pops open his soda. 

Hannibal blinks once as sound returns to the world. "Yes. I can't give any specifics, of course, but she and her mother are quite well." 

It won't be today, after all. A small part of Hannibal is disappointed he won't be able to see Graham fight for his life. He suspects the man would be good at it. 

"I'm a bit surprised you know of my role in that case," Hannibal says as he cracks the seal on the water. "It wasn't particularly dramatic or newsworthy." 

"You a true crime buff?" Jim asks as he takes his seat. He shoots Hannibal an unsubtle look. "Follow some of the crime blogs, maybe?" 

Graham hasn't taken a drink of his soda yet, or looked away from Hannibal's face. The scrutiny feels deliberate. "I read your piece in the Journal of Forensic Psychology on familial cannibalism, last December." 

What an incredibly pleasant surprise. Miss Lounds's persistent interest had indeed seemed the simplest and most likely explanation. "I imagine it was very dry for a layperson. Aside from the Hobbs case it was largely a literature review." 

"Well, I was in the field at one point," Graham points out. "My degree's in criminal psych." _Now_ he takes a sip, still without looking away. "It was interesting."

"Why'd you quit the force?" Jim asks, his interest mild enough that it doesn't seem to put Graham's hackles up the way Hannibal's own inquiries had. 

Graham glances at him, but looks back to Hannibal before he answers, no doubt recalling he'd refused to answer the same question last night. After a moment he looks down at the controls of the boat. "I lost my partner in a shootout. After that, I didn't have the stomach for it. But I still have a little academic interest." 

He starts the boat then, engine roaring to life and making conversation difficult. 

What a fascinating man. 

Once the boat is moving at a reasonable clip, the sun and humidity melt into relative unimportance as the breeze picks up. Graham produces a second pair of binoculars, smaller than Jim's, which Hannibal uses to scan the waterline along their course, keeping his eyes right as Jim focuses left. From the damaged state of their John Doe's remaining clothing, they are hoping to locate some trace of cloth caught in the trees or brush, which they can use to confirm they're headed in the right direction, toward the dumping ground. 

Hannibal traces their path across the map in his memory as they travel up Bayou Chêne, and finds Graham's additions as he understands them to be fairly accurate. He's not sure if the man has been out this morning before meeting them, surveying the flooded areas, or if he already had a mental map of the entire Basin that included minute differences in land elevation. 

Graham slows to an idle when they reach a broad patch of water studded with skinny trees and the tops of drowned palmettos. "What do you think?" He asks in a strangely high voice. Hannibal drops his binoculars to look at him, only to realize Graham is talking to his dog. 

"Oh, I wondered why you brought a dog," Jim says. "Is she really a tracker?" 

"Best one I've got," Graham says, more matter-of-fact than proud. "But I'd probably have brought dogs anyway. Dogs like boats. I left the rest of them behind just to cut the confusion." He stands up and scans the area, squinting not at the brush or the surface of the water but at the tops of the trees around them. "There's maybe three ways your friend could have got here, with the water this high." 

"We could have gotten something from the body," Jim tells him. "Clothing sample, or something. I don't think any of us were thinking in terms of having access to actual tracking dogs, down here." 

Graham seems to find that funny, though unlike earlier he limits himself to a small smile. "Every fifth house 'down here' has got a working dog. Retrievers, hog runners, bird dogs, squirrel dogs, coonhounds…" He pats Bahbin's mottled head. "Blood dogs." 

"You've trained her for this?" Hannibal asks. 

"Not really. She might have been somebody's deer dog before she got dumped on my road, but it's a lot more likely her daddy jumped a fence." He smiles down at her with warm affection. "She's good at finding game if I lose it, though."

"Does she even know what we're looking for?" Jim asks. "It's not like we can tell her we're looking to trace the path of a human body." 

Graham shrugs. "Got a better idea? Anyway, you ever try to keep a dog away from something rotten? I feel like I spend half my time hauling mine off roadkill." 

"See," Jim says, making a face, "this is why I'm a cat person." 

"Better a scavenger than a sadist," Graham says dismissively. He steps up onto the raised deck at the front of the boat and pats his leg. Bahbin leaps after him happily, tail swinging, and Graham crouches to take her head between his hands, calming and focusing her. He speaks to her quietly, seriously, returning her attention to his face when it wanders, repeating whatever he's saying several times, until she abruptly breaks away to the side and starts sniffing around the edge of the boat and pacing the deck with her nose in the air, her nostrils working furiously and audibly. 

"I think I've offended our host," Jim says, under his breath. Hannibal just nods. 

Graham urges Bahbin on with little bits of encouraging, high pitched nonsense. He looks and sounds utterly ridiculous, bent at the waist and knees and projecting false excitement as if the dog will absorb and internalize the energy. The strangest part is, it seems to be working. Bahbin sniffs the deck occasionally, but her nose is mostly in the air. When Graham points in various directions, she follows his lead, straining her neck out along the same line with her nose twitching. 

Graham has to dash back to the helm to change the direction of their slow idle, turning the wheel over and over until they enter a slow, tight turn. Without his direction, Bahbin runs the length of the boat repeatedly, keeping close to the edge. 

"What if she falls in?" Jim asks, sounding genuinely concerned despite his earlier complaints. 

"Then I haul her out," Graham says. "She swims fine. But she won't fall." He tilts his head slightly and straightens the boat back out with a few turns of the wheel in the opposite direction. " _Jumping's_ another story." 

Bahbin goes still at one side of the boat, nose in the air and twitching more slowly now. Her posture makes Graham grin, and he turns the boat back the other way by a few degrees. "That's it…" he says quietly, talking to himself rather than the dog. "Good girl." 

Hannibal feels his own nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, but below the engine smoke and swamp water, the green smell of plants and brown smell of old, wet vegetation, under Graham's array of personal scents, whatever trail Bahbin has caught is beyond him. 

"You've got it," Graham tells her with quiet confidence. "Which way, girl?" 

When Bahbin puts her head back, the deep, piercing, resonant bawl that emerges from her throat is the single loudest sound Hannibal has ever heard an animal make. 

"Well fuck me," Graham mutters, pleased, as he throws the engine back into full roar. "I can't believe that actually worked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Let me tell y'all how cool alligators are. ](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/167479728351/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)
> 
> [This fic has a spotify playlist. ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jessie.iesika/playlist/2WvnBsdaa54gk64Fja2cif)
> 
> If you know anything about tracking dogs you may have already figured out something Will probably should have, if he weren't so dang distracted today for some reason...


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Under the murky water, the thick fishing line strung between the branches would act like a net. Hannibal considers for a moment the amount of entertainment he's gotten out of Graham until now, considers his sharp mind and his strange reactions to Hannibal so far. Graham is wary of him, for some reason, and strangely familiar with his academic and professional work for a man who lives in a long-legged swamp hut like Baba Yaga. It may be safest to let the man drown. If he was struck or crushed when the log moved, he may already be dead._
> 
> Or, Will and Bahbin play fetch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday! I am celebrating by writing! 
> 
> Comments/Kudos will be considered birthday presents and gratefully appreciated as such. <3

**Tuesday, May 17, 2011 - Upper St. Martin Parish, Louisiana, Cow Island**

Graham's ugly little boat cuts slowly across the water, between the narrow trunks of the pines. He has the boat's engine at a strange, oblique angle, and it's far louder than it had seemed when they were moving at a faster clip. The boat moves strangely, sluggishly, their speed not seeming to match the output of the engine.

Bahbin is so excited she can't contain herself, whining and pacing with tail moving furiously. She throws herself against Will's legs repeatedly, and then against Hannibal's and then Jim's, until Jim catches her in a sort of hug and pets her chest. 

"I'll be able to plane up, soon," Graham tells them. "Maybe we could have taken Bayou De Plomb, but I'm worried about her losing the scent." 

"You think she still knows where to go?" Jim asks, and then, when Bahbin bellows beside his ear, shouts, "Jesus," and lets her go to cover his ears. 

"We're almost to the Atchafalaya," Graham says. He bites his lip and frowns, as if he's thinking hard. "Almost to the confluence with the pilot channel, actually. We may need her to tell us which river he came down. But if we keep going this way we'll get off the island and hit actual bayou again on the way. I won't have to worry about chewing up all this brush." 

Hannibal looks over the side of the boat and realizes the dilemma that has entrapped Graham. Where the trees are close, they shade out the brush, leaving the flooded ground clearer, but driving the boat there would become a bit like slalom skiing - a constant game of dodging immovable obstacles. Instead, they are puttering through the more open spaces, but outside the deepest shade of the trees, bushes and palmetto have grown more thickly. If Graham lowers the engine properly into the water, it will strike vegetation, or worse. 

Bahbin howls again as they break from the trees into true sun, and Hannibal can feel and hear the difference as Graham adjusts the angle of the engine. The boat rises up and levels out, and the ride becomes smoother. Bahbin leaps up onto the front deck again, planting her broad paws in a wide stance and bracing herself against the motion of the boat. 

She starts barking again a moment later, in a different tone, and Graham curses and reverses the engine abruptly. "She's got something," he says. 

Hannibal springs smoothly up onto the deck as the backward force of the engine fights the boat's forward momentum, jerking the craft sideways under his feet. He can smell it now, too. There is a body near, in an advanced state of decay. Much worse than Allain, or even their faceless John Doe. He raises the binoculars Graham lent him and peers at the water ahead, taking his directional cue from the hound. 

"That's not a trail bawl," Graham says, "She sounds like she's got something up a tree." He sounds exasperated and concerned. "If she's chasing a damn animal instead of backtracking your John Doe-" 

"There's another body," Hannibal says. "Ahead of us." He can't see it yet, but he knows where it must be caught. "Do you see, ahead, a log caught at the treeline with another downed tree stuck against it?" 

"Fuck. Yeah." Graham adjusts the engine again and idles them forward, moving toward the opposite treeline to avoid debris and circling around the still-leafy branches of the fallen tree, no doubt uprooted in the flood. 

"Another one," Jim says, incredulous. "Another one? That's three in three days!" 

Bahbin starts barking frantically at the same time that Hannibal sees… whatever it is. It isn't the jubilant cry she'd boomed over the water while on the trail but hoarser and higher pitched, more ragged and frantic. 

"Big gator?" Graham asks, and then, a moment later, shifts the engine backward again and leaps to his feet, shotgun in hand. 

It isn't an alligator, but it's some kind of reptile, and it's pulling long strips of flesh off the corpse of what's probably a woman. What is left of her is bound to the lower branches of the fallen tree, entangled in some kind of line that cuts into her sodden and pungent flesh. 

Everything below her ribcage is gone, except for a ragged stump of spine. Hannibal watches in fascination as the turtle - and it has to be some kind of enormous turtle in armor like that, but Hannibal has never seen one like it - turns its head and, with one swift bite, neatly severs the corpse's remaining arm at the wrist, snapping right through the exposed ulna with an audible pop. 

Beside him, Graham fires into the water near the animal, spraying shot into an oblong splash a few feet across. The turtle drops its prize and pushes off the log, disappearing into the water on the far side with a plunk. 

"What the hell was that?" Jim asks. 

"Alligator snapper," Graham says absently. He doesn't have time to inhale after the words before the boat, still moving slightly from their inertia, strikes something under the water and jerks to a stop. Hannibal catches his balance just in time to watch the tree begin to roll. 

"Cut the engine," Graham says. His eyes are fixed on the woman's remains as they turn toward the water, and he shoves his shotgun toward Hannibal without looking at him. "Bahbin!" He looks away from her for a moment and points toward the severed hand now floating downstream. "Get it, girl." 

Graham drops his sunglasses from his collar as she dives off the deck, removes his sneakers by stepping on his own heels, and steps right off the other side of the boat into the water. 

"Shit," Jim says, and dives for the helm, where he turns off the key and silences the motor. 

Graham surfaces and takes off toward the tree in a respectable forward crawl. Hannibal watches with rapt interest as he nears the branches turning toward him. 

"That's really, really, stupidly dangerous," Jim says when he reaches Hannibal's side. 

"Yes," Hannibal agrees, and, with this reminder of Jim's presence, schools his face into something more appropriate for the situation. "But if the branches disentangle from the other log against the bank, or if both trees shift, then we will lose the body." He watches the motion of the limbs as the tree turns, watches the tangled line pulling tighter around the body, and the shifting of the inexplicable plastic jugs caught in the branches. "At the very least she will be further dismembered, if those lines don't break first." 

The body continues to turn as the tree rolls, disappearing slowly under the water. Graham reaches the trunk, a few yards from the lowest branches, takes a deep breath, and goes under. 

"I feel like we should be doing something," Jim says after a long, tense moment. 

Hannibal hears splashing behind them, and then the pad of large paws on fiberglass and the patter of water onto the deck. He doesn't look away from the spot where Graham vanished. 

"Oh, gross," he hears Jim say, "put that down!" 

Hannibal feels his lip twitch, but his attention is still fixed on the tree's lower branches, which are shaking violently now. One of the jugs pops free and floats away. Hannibal is not sure if it is evidence that should be collected for the investigation. He doesn't particularly care. 

Graham erupts from the water a few feet from where he went in, gasping for breath, his chest heaving and throat bobbing. He shakes the wet hair out of his face, takes a few more deep inhales, and then goes under again. 

"No, gimme that," Jim calls from near the back of the boat. Hannibal glances back toward him for long enough to see Bahbin enjoying her game of keepaway. He smiles and returns to his vigil. 

The tree's branches thrash wildly again for half a minute, before the motion is lost in the snapping of branches as the tree escapes whatever snag has held it and rolls violently into the water with a crashing splash. 

Under the murky water, the thick fishing line strung between the branches would act like a net. Hannibal considers for a moment the amount of entertainment he's gotten out of Graham until now, considers his sharp mind and his strange reactions to Hannibal so far. Graham is wary of him, for some reason, and strangely familiar with his academic and professional work for a man who lives in a long-legged swamp hut like Baba Yaga. It may be safest to let the man drown. If he was struck or crushed when the log moved, he may already be dead.

Hannibal has stepped out of his shoes and is unfastening his watch when Graham reappears again gasping and panting. Hannibal knees at the edge of the deck and holds out a hand as he approaches, towing the woman's torso by the line still wrapped around her chest and arm. 

"That was either brave or crazy," Jim says. He drops down next Hannibal with a hoop net from among Graham's fishing supplies and uses it to relieve Graham of his burden. 

"Not mutually exclusive," Graham pants. He catches Hannibal's outstretched hand in a strong grip and grasps the low rail at the edge of the boat with his other hand, helping with his own remaining strength as Hannibal hauls him aboard. He rolls onto his back on the deck with one ankle still dangling over the water. He is bleeding brightly from perhaps a dozen small wounds, including a long, ragged scratch down his throat. 

"We feared for you for a moment," Hannibal tells him. 

"Yeah," Graham pants, and nudges one of Hannibal's abandoned shoes. "I can see that." 

Bahbin pads up beside them, dripping on Graham's face, and drops her prize onto Graham's chest. He reaches up absently to pet her soggy ears. "Good girl. Good job. You got it." 

She pants a wide, doggy grin at him, looking very pleased with herself and a job well done. 

"I tried to get that back from her," Jim says. He comes over a moment later, pulling gloves on.

"She's only really got the hang of the first half of fetching." Graham admits. 

Jim makes a face. "I brought bags for evidence collection but I wasn't expecting half a human corpse." 

"Gimme a minute," Graham says. "I have garbage bags, and we have ice." He lifts his head and looks down at the hand on his chest. He doesn't seem upset by it, exactly, but his brow tightens. The first and second fingers end at the proximal phalanges, but there is a cheap looking gold band at the base of the fourth digit. Whoever this hand once belonged to took very good care of her nails. The three remaining ones are painted a bright coral pink, contrasting boldly against dark skin, though the color of the enamel is somewhat obscured by some sort of slime or algae.

Jim crouches and takes the hand in his own gloved ones, carefully lifting it to examine. "I can probably get a print from her thumb," he says, "maybe the ring finger. And we've got dental records, thanks to Mr. Hero here."

"She was married," Graham says. "Someone'll be looking for her." His eyes appear to be unfocused, staring into the middle distance. After a moment he drops his head back to the deck and closes them. 

"No tattoos," Jim says, sounding disappointed. "Not on this half, anyway." 

"Mr. Graham," Hannibal says, bending over him. "Are you alright?" 

"I'm thinking," Graham mutters absently. "And Jesus, call me Will." 

"Will," Hannibal says, agreeably. He watches Graham's - Will's - eyes twitch beneath his lids like a man dreaming, dark lashes fluttering. Will's nostrils flare as Hannibal's shadow falls on his face, and then his eyes open, looking up at him with a slightly glazed and distant expression. 

"Damn," Jim says from the back of the boat. "Not even enough signal for a text." 

"I should take you back to town," Will says. 

"In your own time. We should take some photographs, and I imagine you're tired after your ordeal." 

Will snorts a laugh and pushes up onto his elbows. "'My ordeal,' he echoes, amused. When Hannibal offers his hand, Will stares at it. "You play the piano." 

Hannibal blinks once and looks at his own hand. "Harpsichord, actually." 

"Oh, of course," Will says. "How silly of me." He takes Hannibal's hand and lets himself be tugged up to his feet. "Look," he says, bringing Hannibal's hand up between them instead of letting it go. "Slight flattening of the fingers, and there's more muscle mass here, below the pinkie, and the gap between it and the ring finger is wider. It'll be more noticeable on your left hand, from hitting the lowest notes harder." 

Hannibal turns to where Jim is still holding the hand in its bag, looking at it curiously.

"Yep," Will confirms. His thumb moves along the base of Hannibal's index finger. "You have some interesting calluses." 

"I have several hobbies." 

Will sounds incredibly amused. "I'll bet. Harpsichord, huh?" 

Jim clears his throat, and Hannibal takes the excuse to retrieve his hand. "We should see Mrs. Ventress home, I think." 

The face is mostly gone, just bare skull and ragged tissue, but the remaining hair is the right length, and the skin tone is correct. 

"You can't possibly ID her by sight in this state," Jim protests. 

"Tentatively. She was one of the few married women missing, and she gave piano lessons for supplemental income." 

Jim frowns. "Which one is she?"

"She went missing in New Roads. Her husband repeated the information about her piano lessons several times in his statement. She taught them at their church, where she also played for services and events." 

"That's weird. Why repeat it like that?" 

Will answers before Hannibal has the chance. "Because someone was calling her character into question. There were a pair of old burn scars between her fingers I'd usually associate with a crack pipe. Healed over, now, but the skin's still discolored. She probably had a record for minor drug offenses?" 

Hannibal hadn't noticed that, or known to look for it as a tell. "Yes, she did. You were able to get quite a lot of information from just examining her hand." 

"I just interpret the evidence," Will says. He frowns down at himself, and then strips his shirt off without unbuttoning it, turning it inside out on the way and leaving himself bare-chested. "Speaking of evidence." 

"Oh, yeah, you're covered in it," Jim says cheerfully. "Where did you say those garbage bags were?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cow Island here is an uninhabited area in the Atchafalaya Basin rather than the town in Vermilion Parish. Or the town in St. Anne Parish. I can't be sure, but the prevalence of places named Cow Island might have something to do with the boucanier tradition of letting cows and pigs lose into the wilderness to be used as a later food source. 
> 
> [This fic has a spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/jessie.iesika/playlist/2WvnBsdaa54gk64Fja2cif)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What's your read on Amos Moses?" Jack asks, voice quiet as if he thinks they may be overheard._  
>     
>  _Hannibal doesn't get the reference, but he understands the general meaning even before Jack's nod toward the door. "You have concerns?"_
> 
> _"He sets my hair on end," Jack admits. "Something about him is rubbing me the wrong way. Jimmy wouldn't shut up about his palm-reading routine, and I've heard some interesting things from folks in town, today, too. Three different people who heard he'd been seen with us stopped me to ask if he was a suspect."_
> 
> Or, Will goes fishing.

**Tuesday, May 17, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

The route Will charts on their way back toward Bigarno brings them into range of a cell tower, and Jim is able to call in their find so that Beverly is waiting with a van at the dock when they arrive. 

"What happened to you?" She asks when Will leaps onto the dock to tie them off. His damp hair is curling wildly and his shorts are still wet enough to hang heavily off the points of his hips. He had allowed Hannibal to flush his many small wounds with a bottle of water, in lieu of actual disinfectant, but there are still traces of dried blood flaking on his skin. 

"Had to untangle the body from a trot line," he says, as if this is anything like an adequate description of what happened. Behind Will, Jim is miming something to her in an exaggerated but abstruse private code. And then he shoots a significant glance at Hannibal. 

Hannibal returns the look with a deadpan stare, which doesn't stop Beverly from grinning. 

"What?" Will says, and turns to look behind him, where by then Jim has his serious law enforcement professional face on. 

They transfer the body, and Jim loads up with Beverly for the trip back, with Will's shirt in a garbage bag under his arm. When Hannibal moves to join them, though, Will touches his arm. 

"Were they all black women?" 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"The women you're looking for. The two other dead women, and the missing ones." 

"It's hard to be sure. We're still attempting to find the patterns that will tie these cases together." Will's eyes narrow, and Hannibal finds himself conceding. "We have some possible pattern matches that are white women, but the most clear and significant cluster are all black women, yes." 

"Women like Yvonne Ventress. Young, poor, troubled past. The kind of people no one officially looks for." 

"Yes." 

Will stands in silence for a minute longer, scratching at Bahbin's soggy fur. Two of his ragged little wounds have yet to scab over, and Hannibal watches a thin trickle of blood spill down the man's chest. When his eyes return to Will's face, Will is watching him. "Let me drive you back?" 

Why is Will Graham trying to get him alone? "Thank you, that would be very helpful." Hannibal tries his easy smile, and gets a faint one in return. Beyond a few oblique glances, Will has barely looked at him since they stowed Ventress's body away, but it seems they've returned to Will's habit of intense eye contact.

Bahbin leaps happily into the back of the truck as soon as the tailgate is dropped. Will pats her on the rump once he's folded the gate back up. "She thinks she's going home."

"Is she not?" 

"Tonight?" Will shakes his head as the separate on opposite sides of the cab. When Hannibal opens the door on the passenger side he finds Will has started the engine and thus the air conditioning without actually getting into the truck. "Road'll be out." 

"And the rest of your menagerie?" 

That earns a small smile. "They'll be fine for the night. The house is an island. I'll camp at the shop and head out there in the morning by boat." He swings up into the cab then, and Hannibal follows suit before buckling in for the ride. "Unless y'all need me first thing." 

"We might just," Hannibal admits. "Though it's hardly unreasonable to ask a bit of time to get your own affairs in order before starting the working day." 

"Your boss doesn't seem like the kind of guy that would take 'hardly unreasonable' as a very good argument." 

"He'll take it if I'm the one presenting the argument," Hannibal assures him. "In any case, I suspect you and Bahbin have just secured the Bureau's cooperation over the objections of the New Orleans Field Office, which should earn a bit of good will and free up quite a lot of resources for our investigation." 

Will grunts. "What's up with that, anyway? I remember Agent Polk being all right." 

Hannibal looks up at the sun visor and keeps his voice deliberately even. "The current Agent in Charge has been less than helpful." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Will's hands shift on the steering wheel. "There has been quite a bit of argument as to whether our unit should be involved, as the local team has insisted up to this point that there was no evidence of any connection between the deaths and disappearances we were investigating. 

"No connection meaning no federal case," Will summarizes. "Meaning butt out and go home, you damned yankees, we can handle our own business." 

"Something like that," Hannibal concedes. "There has been… personality conflict, as well. Politics of which I likely should not speak more than to say, Agent Wilson and Agent Crawford do not get on well." 

The car has blessedly cooled down by the time they approach the town. As uncomfortable as the humid heat has been, it has certainly left Hannibal with an increased appreciation of breezes and air conditioning. He closes his eyes and leans into the stream of air coming through one of the vents and experiences a brief moment of bliss. 

When he opens his eyes, Will's gaze darts away from his face. He looks sheepish and reluctant, his head lowered so that his eyes are barely visible under his damp lashes. "Can I ask a big favor?"

"If it's something I can help you with," Hannibal says easily, curious what's brought on this change. 

"Even if I took the boat back to my place, the water's either out or untrustworthy til I can get the well tested. I have clothes, but there isn't a shower at the shop." 

"Ah," Hannibal says, "yes, of course." He catches a slight shift of the muscles under Will Graham's eyes. "Perhaps we ought to drop off Bahbin, and you can join us at our makeshift headquarters when you've had a chance to clean up?" 

When they get to the Cypress Inn, Jack comes out of his room next to Hannibal's with his phone pressed to his ear. When he sees them, he pockets the phone and marches over and, after a disdainful glance over Will's state of deshabille, buttonholes Hannibal against the side of the truck. "We're moving." 

Hannibal is surprised at his spike of disappointment at the idea of moving on so soon. "Even with the body just discovered?" 

Jack blinks. "No, no. We're moving from the funeral home. We've got a mobile morgue unit on the way from Dallas, and we're renting a temporary office. State Police and Wildlife are lending us people and vehicles. We'll have a proper task force by tomorrow." 

"Excellent," Hannibal says, thinking anything but. 

"Could I, uh?" Will says, sheepish, hefting the small bag he'd grabbed from the back of the truck. "I kind of reek." 

Hannibal unlocks the door, but when he moves to follow Jack stops him. "I need to ask you something, doctor." 

The door clicks shut, and Will Graham is alone in Hannibal's space. 

He was not concerned with the New Orleans police collecting his things. This is another matter entirely. Graham is an unknown factor, and as observant as he is intelligent. "What can I help you with, Jack," Hannibal says, and takes a step toward the window in case housekeeping left the curtains parted. No luck. 

"What's your read on Amos Moses?" Jack asks, voice quiet as if he thinks they may be overheard. 

Hannibal doesn't get the reference, but he understands the general meaning even before Jack's nod toward the door. "You have concerns?" 

"He sets my hair on end," Jack admits. "Something about him is rubbing me the wrong way. Jimmy wouldn't shut up about his palm-reading routine, and I've heard some interesting things from folks in town, today, too. Three different people who heard he'd been seen with us stopped me to ask if he was a suspect." 

The longer Will is alone in Hannibal's room the more likely he is to notice something that sets his agile mind whirring. The feeling is not unlike footsteps approaching from behind him in the dark. Now, Jack is offering a chance to be rid of the man. "May I be frank?" 

"You know I value your honest opinion," Jack says. "You're the sharpest guy I know, when it comes to reading people." 

"I'd ask you to note your own use of the word 'sharp.'"

Jack gives him a rueful smile. "Are you about to say something cutting, Dr. Lecter?" 

"You've had to work very hard for your position. It has been a fight hard won on an uneven playing field, and you still have to work against people like Agent Wilson on a regular basis in order to maintain it. I think the idea of an intelligent man choosing manual labor and obscurity doesn't sit well with you. You assume he must have something to hide, or he wouldn't be living alone in a swamp." 

Jack takes that in silence, turning to look out toward the street, where a beat up sedan crunches through a pothole and raises a splash of gritty water. "That's what you think about me. You haven't said what you think of him." 

"I'm not sure, yet," Hannibal admits. "But he has been an asset to our investigation, so far." 

Jack nods slowly. "True." 

"And," Hannibal adds, to keep the avenue open, "while he is working with us we may have access to him and his property and vehicles we would not have if you terminate that contract. At least not without probable cause." 

"Very true," Jack admits. "Okay, fair enough. But can I count on you to keep an eye on him?" 

"I can do that," Hannibal accedes. "Though on that note…" he tilts his head toward his motel room door. 

Jack bids him farewell and good luck as Hannibal slips into his own room. 

The only sign of Will's presence is the sound of water running and a faint haze of steam at the top of the vanity mirror. Hannibal examines the room, but beyond the bed having been made in his absence, nothing seems to have been disturbed. There is a faintly swampy scent in the air, but Hannibal isn't entirely sure if that's from Will's shower or just the fact the room has been shut up all day. 

Will did turn on the air conditioning before he vanished into the bathroom, which was thoughtful of him. Hannibal takes the moment free from observation to stand in front of the unit and lift the hem of his polo-neck shirt. Bliss, again. 

The steam from the bathroom becomes fragrant, and Hannibal recognizes his own shampoo. Used without asking, but so far preferable to the artificial freesia hotel soap that Hannibal can't bring himself to mind. He steps away from the icy breeze with reluctance and opens his suitcase for his medical bag. 

By the time Will emerges in a cloud faintly tinged with vetiver and agarwood, Hannibal has cleared and cleaned the desk and laid out several items on a clean handkerchief. He makes a show of opening a sterile packet of gauze pads while Will lingers in the doorway, a thin towel around his hips. 

"Hope you don't mind I stole your soap," Will says, his voice low. 

"Not at all," Hannibal says, graciously. "It's a much better scent on you than whatever terrible aftershave it is you favor." He doesn't look up, but in his peripheral he can see Will cross his arms and lean against the doorframe. 

Will sounds amused. "I don't wear aftershave. Out here it's more likely to attract bugs than a date." He tilts his head. "I'm not sure what to make of you scenting me like a hound dog." 

"It works well enough for Bahbin. Would you come here, please?" He looks up in time to catch the crinkle around Will's eyes, a smile that doesn't reach his lips. 

"You want me for something?" He asks, and there's no denying the amused flirtation in his voice this time. He pushes off the door frame with a twist of his shoulders that travels down his bare body until it shifts the threadbare terrycloth around his hips. Hannibal jerks his eyes up to Will's face and reads the intentions he's clearly broadcasting. "I thought your boss might drag you off somewhere." 

"I wanted to see to your injuries," Hannibal tells him, with a glance to the supplies he's laid out. 

"Just a couple scratches," Will says, dismissive. "Though if you want to examine me just to be sure, I won't object. Doctor." He steps into reach and, instead of sitting in the chair Hannibal has pulled out for him, perches on the edge of the desk.

Even with his feet bare, Will can't be more than two inches shorter than Hannibal, standing. Sitting on the desk puts Will just low enough that, when he tilts his chin down and looks up at Hannibal from under his lashes, it looks natural. His knees part, shifting the towel over his lap and inviting Hannibal to press his advantage and close the distance between them. 

Awareness screams through Hannibal, then. If he has been suspicious of Will Graham to this point, it's nothing compared to what that calculated posture of enticement reveals. 

The man is a fisherman, and he thinks he's found the perfect bait. 

This is a trap. 

Hannibal smiles as he steps into the open net. "Tilt your head back, please," he says, as he moves closer and opens the antiseptic. Will takes the instruction easily and bares his throat, leaning back on his palms. 

Forgoing standard precautions, Hannibal leaves his gloves on the desk when he reaches out to cup Will's exposed throat. He rubs his thumb over a jagged mark, where fresh blood is welling after Will's hot shower. At Hannibal's touch, the wound spills red over Will's skin. 

"Some of these hooks had nasty barbs, I think," Hannibal tells him. "You should really be more careful."

  
  
Art by the amazing [haedraulics](http://haedraulics.tumblr.com/)! Go tell them how amazing it is! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has accumulated quite a few bonus background posts, photos, videos and songs on my tumblr, which can be found under the tag [What The Water Gave Me](http://iesika.tumblr.com/search/what%20the%20water%20gave%20me).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hannibal cleans Will Graham's wounds with all the professional care and concentration he would use with any patient, but he keeps one bare hand on Graham's warm, damp skin throughout the process._
> 
>  
> 
> _He doesn't avoid eye contact, or retreat from Will's invitation to touch, but he doesn't acknowledge their position, Will half-reclining under his attentions, his bare knees framing Hannibal's thighs and towel threatening to slip._
> 
> Or, Will and Hannibal make a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks! I was sleeping off a weird cold and working on holiday gift projects.

**Tuesday, May 17, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

Hannibal cleans Will Graham's wounds with all the professional care and concentration he would use with any patient, but he keeps one bare hand on Graham's warm, damp skin throughout the process. 

He doesn't avoid eye contact, or retreat from Will's invitation to touch, but he doesn't acknowledge their position, Will half-reclining under his attentions, his bare knees framing Hannibal's thighs and towel threatening to slip. 

"Can you tell me about your vaccination history?" Hannibal asks, glancing up only briefly from a laceration on Will's abdomen. He wonders if he could get away with insisting on a few stitches. 

Probably not. Will has enough scars to suggest knowledge of a wound treatable with butterfly closures and one that would require an emergency room. 

"Um," Will says, sounding a bit off guard. Hannibal smiles slightly as he presses an adhesive pad into place with one hand and ostensibly keeps Will still with his fingers curled around the man's side. His thumb seeks out the slight ridges of his lower ribs, but Hannibal keeps his expression open, friendly, a bit bland. 

Will is watching him closely. "Well, I had a rabies shot last year," he volunteers. Hannibal lets his surprise show, but all he earns by it is a head shake and a "don't ask."

"And tetanus? Hepatitis?" 

Will rolls his eyes. "I'm up to date." 

"Are you sure?" Hannibal asks, all solicitous concern. He shifts his hand, fingers tracing the curving verge of Will's latissimus dorsi. He really would give such lovely, lean meat. "Not immunocompromised in any way?" When Will's brow furrows Hannibal adds, "I'm only concerned due to your potential exposure to pathogens." 

"You mean you don't inquire about the immune status of all the men you have in this position?" Will says, but it's only a halfhearted attempt to bring the topic back toward his goal. 

Hannibal gives him a mild smile and turns to go wash his hands. "I haven't worked as a physician in quite some time."

"Right," Will says, voice flat, but sparked with just a bit of amusement. When Hannibal's hands are clean he turns back, and finds Will still sitting on the desk but in a more comfortable posture, knees parted only a few inches, spine curved but nearly upright He's peering at Hannibal with open curiosity. 

Excellent. "I'll just be a moment to freshen up, if you don't mind?" He asks. 

"Yeah, sure." 

Hannibal divests himself of his shirt as he enters the small bathroom. In the mirror, he can just catch Will Graham's puzzled expression as the door closes between them.

And now the ball is back in his court, so to speak. 

*

Clean and dressed, they join the others at the funeral home. 

"I doubt Chuck has more than two freezer drawers in there," Will says as they walk up. "If anybody else dies, I know a guy with a shrimp truck he might rent you."

Hannibal smiles at the thought. "I'm not sure if that would follow food safety regulations." 

Inside, the others are bustling about, working their way through newly collected evidence. 

"You were right," Jim tells them when they walk in. "I got a partial - this is Ventress." 

"Better than a complete unknown, I guess," Will says beside him. "I'd rather connect a body to a known missing person than to realize there's been another, unknown victim." 

"And we got a dental ID on our Doe…" Jim leads them toward the tables at the back of the room, where Beverly and Brian are have arranged Ventress's remains on what Hannibal can't help recognize as a full-sized sheet cake pan, though it's covered in plastic. "Nathan Burgess of Rosedale, Louisiana." 

"His house is two miles from where Aleesha's body was found," Beverly adds. "He went missing around the same time, though it's hard to say exactly when since he lived alone and wasn't regularly employed." 

"A witness or accomplice, perhaps," Hannibal posits aloud. He sees the look that passes between Brian and Beverly, and Jim's open wince and bared teeth. "What else did you find?"

"Sexual assault," Jack says as he enters from a side room, phone in hand. 

"Evidence of recent anal penetration," Brian says, his eyes on Jim, who is looking away. "Which may or may not have been sexual assault. But it didn't look violent. No DNA, either."

Jack grunts dismissively, but Brian is right that the distinction could be important. "Was he known to sleep with men?" Hannibal asks. Beside him, Wil turns away from the others and wanders over to poke at their stacks of files and photographs. 

"We haven't done house to house," Beverly admits. "But I called his brother in Baton Rouge once the local cops told him about the death, and he didn't think Nate ever dated at all. Kind of a sad life, it sounded like. He tended to drink too much at family holidays, so his brother's family had kind of stopped inviting him to things. He didn't seem to have anybody else, but we might find out more in town." 

"We'll have state police help in the morning," Jack tells them. He sits heavily in one of the rooms two simple wooden chairs. "Damn, it stinks in here." 

"Sorry, didn't pack the febreeze," Jim says. "Or the vent hood." 

Brian holds up a small jar, and when Jack nods, he tosses it across the room so Jack can dab strong-smelling ointment under his nostrils. "The morgue truck ought to get here tonight," Jack tells them. 

He holds up the jar to Hannibal, who shakes his head. He'd rather the temporary exposure to rotten flesh than suffer a nose burned by camphor and menthol until he can have a proper wash. 

"How about you, Mr. Graham?" Jack asks. He holds the little jar up, but Will doesn't turn around. 

Hannibal steps closer to him, to see that the file in front of him is Aleesha Coleman's - their first body discovered, charred and twisted in what was left of her fifteen-year old Civic. Will has three photos from the scene spread out, so that he can see all of them at once. 

Jack frowns in irritation. "Graham?" 

"Will," Hannibal says, softly, and touches Will's arm at the elbow. Will blinks as if he's just woken and sucks in a deep breath. When he turns to look at Hannibal, his pupils are curiously enlarged. It's an appealing sight, but Hannibal tilts his head in Jack's direction, and Will's eyes quickly leave his. 

"What?" He says, sounding a bit dazed, and then, a breath later, he seems himself again. "Oh, no thank you. It doesn't bother me." 

Jack grunts. "Actually, I think we're probably done with you for the day," he says. Between their earlier conversation and the set of Jack's shoulders, Hannibal has no trouble discerning the reason for this abrupt dismissal. Will Graham is not to be given full access to the investigation. "I imagine you've got a lot to do. We wouldn't want to keep you." 

Will shrugs. "Suit yourself." He backs away from the table, brushing past Hannibal just closely enough for Hannibal to scent agarwood over the sweet background stink of death. 

"Before you go," Hannibal says when Graham is almost to the door, " I don't suppose you could recommend a place for a decent meal." 

Will pauses in the doorway, and the brief moment of eye contact between them is electric. It feels like telepathy. "There's good beer and burgers at Ya Ya," he says. "Game'll be on tonight. Or if you wanted somewhere quieter, you could try Ti Tante's." 

Once he's gone, the mood of the room shifts. 

"What a fucking weirdo," Brian mutters. 

"We don't actually think it's him, do we?" Beverly asks. "I mean, that would be one hell of a weird coincidence. And we haven't got anything to tie him to the crimes at all, just some gossipy small-towners." 

Jack rests against the counter and folds his arms over his chest. "He's a civilian consultant without any history with the agency. There's no reason to give him more information than he needs." 

"I don't know," Jim says. "He's sharp, and he's got local context. He might spot something. Anyway, if he had any reason to want to keep evidence from us he wouldn't have risked his life dragging this mess out of the water." He gestures to the corpse of Yvonne Ventress. 

"Speaking of, can we get her on ice?" Beverly asks. "We already have larval samples, so there's no reason not to chill her while we go over her history. 

The others listen intently to Beverly's recitation of her research on Yvonne Ventress and her husband - husbands of course being automatically suspect in such cases. 

Hannibal listens with half an ear, since he's read her file once already and drawn his own conclusions. He focuses instead on the photos Will left on the table. 

Hannibal has seen them before, of course. Aleesha was already in the ground when her case came to their attention, so the photos and the local medical examiner's report are really all they have to go on. Documentation of the scene by responding officers had been underwhelming in its level of detail, but the photos at least are decent. 

He ponders Graham's blown pupils as he gathers up the scattered papers and, while the others are focused on the recitation of facts and relationships, slips the file under his blazer.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Hey, I've been entirely upfront about my interest."_
> 
> _"True. You did mention you'd encountered my academic work."_
> 
> _Will sighs in exaggerated frustration as Karen bangs out of the screen door with a bowl in each hand. "I don't think he wants me for my body, after all," he tells her._
> 
> _He'd rather have Will's body than whatever is in those bowls._
> 
> Or, Hannibal and Will go out for drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop what you're doing right now and [click here to see the gorgeous illustration of Will in his underpants](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/168396394391/wormsin-what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-and) that wormsin drew for all of us. Thank you, wormsin!

**Tuesday, May 17, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

Ti Tante's isn't what Hannibal expected, since Will had suggested it would be quieter than the sports bar in the center of town. There are a dozen motorcycles and two pickup trucks out front, not counting Will's familiar and battered green Ranger. The building itself looks more or less like any other roadhouse bar Hannibal has seen, except that the rough-riven clapboard siding is vibrant phthalocyanine blue.

The same baseball game is playing in the dark bar as had been at Ya Ya when he left, with what Hannibal imagines is styled as 'classic' rock and roll playing over the game's commentary from a jukebox in the corner. The bar isn't crowded, and a handful of patrons turn to look at him as he walks in. It's an older and more grizzled crowd, on average, than back at the bustling pub where his companions are enjoying themselves in the noisy atmosphere. 

The room reeks from decades of tobacco smoke, to which the bar patrons are steadily contributing. Hannibal does not wrinkle his nose. Will is not visible from the door. As Hannibal scans the room for him, his eyes pass over a woman with bright apricot curls and blue eye shadow, who lifts her glass and cigarette both to him and smiles. Hannibal smiles back and gives her a polite nod, but turns away to approach the bar. 

"He's out back," the bartender tells him before he can ask. She has short, dark hair and is wearing a plaid shirt from which the sleeves have been removed to show off her tattoos, which are of a style considerably older than the young woman's apparent years. 

"Dare I ask how you know who I'm looking for?" Hannibal asks. 

She grins. "He said, hey, Tante, keep an eye out for my new sugar daddy will you?" She looks Hannibal over, from top to toe. "I thought he was joking til you walked in." 

"He was joking," Hannibal assures her. 

"Uh huh," Tante says, still grinning. "Buy him a drink anyway. He's a cheap drunk." She puts a pair of frosty beer bottles on the counter, and Hannibal bows slightly before leaving a ten dollar bill on the bar and taking the beers with him in search of his quarry. 

He finds Will outside the back door, reclining in a wooden chair with his bare feet propped against a plantless planter full of cigarette butts, reading a paperback that he's curled almost into a cylinder. "I suppose they say, if someone is able to identify you by description, don't ask to hear the description." Hannibal says from the doorway. 

Will looks up and grins, though whether that's for Hannibal's arrival, the joke at Hannibal's expense or, most probably, the sudden appearance of cold beer on a sticky night. "Your own fault for wearing a suit like that in a town like this." 

Hannibal makes a show of considering this as he sets the bottles down and places his case beside the table. He looks up toward the moon as he loosens his tie and opens his collar, and then strips off his jacket to hang it over the chair opposite Will's before sitting at the iron table. "Better?" 

"Hardly," Will says. He puts his book down and, once he's turned to face Hannibal, produces the big folding knife Hannibal has so far only seen in the case at the back of his belt. Hannibal watches his deft hands with rapt attention as he opens the blade, which is as long as Will's callused palm. "Keep stripping."

"Or?" Hannibal asks, his eyes on the blade as Will uses the back to lever the tops off their bottles. 

"Or keep sweating," Will says, smiling to himself. "I win either way." 

Hannibal concedes with a tilt of his head and unbuttons his sleeves to fold them up. "I was unaware there was a contest." 

Will snorts in disbelief, his lips against the mouth of the bottle. "Yeah, sure," he says, and takes a sip. "You here to check up on my scratches, then, _doctor_?" He leans far back in his chair again, until Hannibal is sure he'll topple, and shouts through the screen door into the noisy bar. "Hey, Karen, can we get something to eat?" 

"I thought the barwoman's name was Tante?" Hannibal asks, sidestepping the tease. 

"Nah," Will says, absently. "Tante just means aunt. The place used to just be Tante's til Karen took it over and added the Ti up front since she's younger than most of the regulars." When he looks back at Hannibal he seems surprised that Hannibal actually looks interested. "Ti, like petite," he clarifies. "Little auntie. It's what you'd call your parent's sister if they're around your age instead of older." 

"Do you speak the local French?" Hannibal asks, fascinated.

"Just enough to cuss somebody or order food. I came up in Mississippi and traveled around a lot. You pick up a bit if you live in the right parish long enough, but only the _real_ old timers don't mostly speak English day to day." Will shrugs. "I took French in high school, but you can't actually learn a language that way, and it's really not the same." 

"I've noticed," Hannibal says, smiling. "My sole attempt at conversing in French since I arrived went poorly."

"Youngest medical student in French history, at that time," Will says, sounding like he's quoting, reminding himself of something. It takes Hannibal a moment to realize he knows the source. 

"You've been reading Tattlecrime," he says with disapproval. 

"Was that not accurate?" Will asks, all innocence. "No surgical residency at Johns Hopkins? Next thing you'll be telling me your team hasn't had the best closure rate in the field since Jack Crawford dragged you out of private practice." He smiles meanly. "Someone on that website has a crush on you." 

"I assure you, she does not," Hannibal says. He sighs a put-upon sigh. "Ms. Lounds is only interested in me professionally, but that's more than enough." 

"Is she like to turn up here?" Will asks. "She followed you to Minnesota. North Carolina. West Virginia."

Will has certainly done his homework. "I don't know whether to be flattered or concerned by your interest." 

"Hey, I've been entirely upfront about my interest." 

"True. You did mention you'd encountered my academic work." 

Will sighs in exaggerated frustration as Karen bangs out of the screen door with a bowl in each hand. "I don't think he wants me for my body, after all," he tells her. 

He'd rather have Will's body than whatever is in those bowls. 

"Sugar mamas are a better long term investment," she tells Will with every indication of seriousness. "Sex drive doesn't go downhill so fast."

"Well, you'd know. Give Darlene a kiss for me, will you?"

Karen cheerfully presents her middle finger to Will on her way back inside. Hannibal waits until the door has banged shut before he tries his dish, which turns out to be kidney beans with sausage and long grained white rice. 

"You look surprised," Will says, sounding amused.

"I don't mean to impune the skills of your young friend, but I have to admit I was a bit dubious after seeing the bar." 

Will shrugs and tucks into his own bowl. "It's hard to fuck up red beans and rice, if you start with decent sausage." 

"Quite a bit of good pork," Hannibal says. He takes another bite. "High fat, fine grain, too much salt and more pepper than I'm used to, but very flavorful."

"It's andouille," Will says. 

Hannibal puts his fork down. "It most certainly is not." He and Will stare at each other for a long, strange moment. Then Hannibal spears a bite of sausage and holds it up to examine. "This is like the turtle all over again." 

Will frowns. "The one we saw earlier?"

At that, Hannibal laughs. "No. Forgive me. I believe I'm having another moment of cultural confusion. The andouille I know is stuffed with pig or veal intestine, not bell pepper." 

"I wouldn't put chitlins in sausage," Will says, still frowning. "That's inside out. Intestines on the outside, stuffing on the inside. That's the whole point." 

"A lucky thing, to have such abundance of good meat you can put the best of it in your sausages. But at least you aren't squeamish about eating the casing. Most Americans I've met wouldn't know what to do with a liver, let alone a kidney." 

"Boudin." Will says absently as he eats. "Dirty rice. Jambalaya." 

"I've been eating at the wrong restaurants," Hannibal muses. "Though I did have a lovely course crawl on St. Claude Avenue. The Sneaky Pickle was marvelous." 

It's Will's turn to set his fork down and stare. Hannibal watches him back. 

"You're not what I expected," Will admits. He goes back to his dinner without further comment, leaving Hannibal feeling pleased with himself. 

He doesn't bring out the folder he borrowed from their makeshift lab until Will is done eating. Perhaps it's that small show of thoughtfulness which prevents Will from going through the motions of pretended confusion. He was clearly hoping to see it again. 

"This is your first victim found," Will says, flipping through the papers. He stacks their bowls and puts them on the ground along with their beer bottles, so that he can spread everything out on their small table. "Completely different from all the rest. Tell me why the FBI got involved in this one. Why you think she's connected to the others." 

"Her Ti Tante, actually," Hannibal admits. He produces another folder, this one a concertina portfolio with a string closure. It's an old fashioned style, and it catches Will's attention immediately. "Aleesha's aunt Mercy came home from Houston for her funeral and began talking to friends and family. There were several young women who had gone missing, including a girl she had sometimes minded as a teenager, named Wanda Bercegeay. Mercy and Wanda's grandmother approached the police, but Wanda's disappearance was written off. She was over eighteen, and she had a history of short disappearances. A few days at a time, usually." 

Will frowns and takes the portfolio from Hannibal. "How long has she been missing, now?" 

"As of Friday, it's been four weeks." He watches Will unwind the crimson thread and open the folder to look inside, at the newspaper clippings taped carefully to cardstock, the "Have You Seen Me" posters and Crimestoppers flyers, the internet printouts. "The police didn't take them seriously, so Mercy contacted the FBI." 

"And they sent their best team?" Graham asks, deeply skeptical. 

"No. They never called her back. She filed a report and made several follow up calls, and visited the local field office in person. She was written off as a paranoiac. The word 'crank' was in the official file." 

"So how did y'all get involved?" 

"Mercy went online and researched the FBI's structure and personnel, looking for someone with enough authority to help her who seemed unlikely to dismiss her out of hand. And then she took a bus to Quantico and knocked on Jack Crawford's door." Hannibal smiles to himself. "A very clever and resourceful woman."

Will pauses in sorting through the clippings. "He's taking the case very seriously." 

"Oh, Jack takes every case very seriously," Hannibal assures him. "But this one made him so livid he dropped everything else to take it over. He's had to fight tooth and nail against the bureaucracy just to be here when the local office doesn't want us." 

Will's frown softens at that. "And everyone else is furious that he's pulled rank. Got _uppity_. Christ." 

"The Agent In Charge at the local field office would have to have been very incompetent or very deliberately blind, not to be able to see there was something strange going on, once he was presented with our evidence." 

"So," Will says, voice slow and low and serious. "What _is_ going on? 

"You tell me." When Will just looks blankly back at him, Hannibal leans over the table, inviting conspiracy. "You saw something. You only had the photos for a moment, before, but you saw something."

"You know, this isn't what I was expecting out of a dinner date." 

"Wasn't it? I thought you read my intentions quite well." 

Will makes a sound of displeasure, looking away. Then he leans forward as well, matching Hannibal's posture. "When I was a detective…" He trails off. "My background's in forensics. And I have a good imagination. I'm good at...thinking myself into someone else's shoes, I guess. Taking in the available evidence, synthesizing it, looking for patterns or telltale points." 

"You had a reputation for it?" Hannibal guesses. At Will's look he clarifies. "Skill at analysing a crime scene isn't something usually spoken of in such hushed tones. You didn't want to tell me." 

"Some of the guys treated me like a psychic," Will admits. "Like it was voodoo. I just examine the evidence." 

"And what does the evidence say?" Hannibal asks, trying to hold back some of his eagerness.

"It's obvious, isn't it? What happened?" Will frowns. "Someone tried to get her out of that car and she wouldn't go." He shuffles through to a close-up of Aleesha's charred face. "Her nasal bone was cracked - She probably fought like hell. And then whoever it was - shot her?" 

Hannibal nods. 

"Maybe in a panic. Maybe she was winning the fight. He doused her in gasoline and set the car on fire to wreck the evidence, so she probably had blood and tissue on her, under her nails, maybe in the car. It would have happened fast. He had to improvise, but he had the gas to hand - otherwise someone who heard the gunshot would have shown up before he could get the fire going." 

"It was a rural area, outside the limits of the town, with fields on all sides. A gunshot may not have drawn attention." Hannibal thinks about it. "But I think you must be right about the gasoline. Aleesha's car was next to the highway. The killer would have been at risk of discovery, for every extra moment it took. If he'd had to acquire fuel he would have moved the car, first."

Will grimaces down at the photos. "And she was still alive. I don't even need to see the lungs to know. See how she's curled up?" He rubs at his forehead. "He hated her. Whoever did this, he hated her - didn't even think of her as a person, and she refused him, insulted him, hurt him when he tried to force her. She tried to go out of the far side of the car, even though she was burning. She was more afraid of her attacker than the fire." 

He looks up from the photos, and his eyes seem to Hannibal like deep, dark wells. Windows to the soul. Hannibal wants to keep them forever in a jar. 

"I think there were two of them," Will all but whispers. "She was trying to get away from the first one, but there was someone on the other side holding the door shut." He closes his eyes for several minutes, sitting in silence while Hannibal collects papers and photographs, returning them to their folders and to his case. 

Hannibal doesn't break the silence. When he has everything packed away, he leans back in his chair and looks at the moon again. 

"You owe me a drink," Will says when he opens his eyes again. "Not a beer this time. Whiskey. A double." 

Hannibal orders from the top shelf, such as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy Ti Tante's [red beans and rice recipe](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/168521064371/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On this enlarged and detailed map, it appears Will Graham's land is bounded on the south by the Lake Fausse State Park, on the West by Dauterive lake, on the north and east by Bayou Chêne. The house really is an island, right now, a boat on the sea, encircled entirely by water. A castle heavily fortified not with crenelations but with an extensive and treacherous moat, defended by canons and harnessed beasts and wild monsters. It makes Hannibal think of the Rocca di Ravaldino, except that the rivers are better than walls, in that Will could never be trapped inside. A man like him could disappear into the swamps without a trace._
> 
> Or, Jack assembles the troops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! With the holidays over I ought to be able to resume something closer to my usual posting schedule. Thank you for being patient with me! 
> 
> As always, Bigarno is a made up town (the R is silent) and everyone in this story is a made up person unless otherwise specified.

**Wednesday, May 18, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

By morning, Brian Zeller is ecstatic. Hannibal sips mediocre coffee with Jack while they watch him running around, overseeing the arrival of the temporary morgue trailer. The local preference outside New Orleans has so far seemed to be for overroasted beans in an oversteeped, acidic brew - a combination Hannibal had taken for poor brewing but which has been so consistent that he is beginning to believe is being done on purpose. 

He'll go shopping later. Will or one of the other locals will be able to tell him if one of the town's small groceries sells beans ground on-site, at least, and he'll either acquire or rig a pour-over funnel. 

"Here we go," Brian calls down from the back of the truck, which stands open in the loading bay. "Eighteen drawers, and almost down to temp already." 

"I hope to hell that's overkill," Jack mutters. 

"Well, it was either this or we start renting chest freezers," Brian shoots back before disappearing inside again. Hannibal can just hear him continuing to complain over the hum of refrigeration. "Space for two bodies… what the hell do they do when there's a pileup?" 

"Not enough cars in town for a pileup," Beverly shouts back. She and Jim are busy arranging workstations for themselves, connecting laptops, cameras and lamps. 

The building they've commandeered was, at some point, a small store. Furniture, Hannibal thinks, perhaps antiques from the scent of old cedar and lemon polish still lingering faintly under the smell of dust in the vents. It's been closed for a while, but not so long for the front windows to be boarded or broken. There's a touch of the sandalwood and ammonia scent of rats, but only faint, and Hannibal thinks restricted primarily to the storage area Brian has claimed for its lack of windows. 

Hannibal takes his coffee, such as it is, into the front of the shop and looks out onto the sunlit street. It's early morning, but the temperature doesn't really seem to drop here at night. Perhaps the water in the air holds the heat. 

"This is better than Grafton," Beverly says as she enters the shopfront behind him. "Indoors and climate controlled, at least."

"The temperature kept the smell down a bit," Hannibal reminds her. "And all the bodies had been so conveniently stacked in one place." 

Beverly snorts at that, as he thought she would, and she taps him lightly on the ankle with her boot as she walks past. "Help me with this damned table." 

Hannibal shakes himself out of his reverie and drops his coffee cup into the garbage before turning to join her. 

Wildlife and Fisheries bring three more folding tables with them when they arrive, along with a big box of fried pastries and more terrible coffee. Dan had turned out, on the paperwork, to be Agent Daniel Ourso, and he introduces his partner, Henry Verdun, with the French pronunciation, and keeps referring to him that way even though 'Enri' corrects them twice. 

"Tell us what you found out about our guy?" Dan asks when he's done teasing his partner. 

"Nathan Burgess," Beverly says, sitting on one of the tables while she sorts through folders despite there now being plenty of chairs. "Went by Nate. Stocked rest stop vending machines for a living, lived alone in Rosedale, only known family is a brother in Baton Rouge. No one noticed he was missing, or if they did they didn't care enough to report it." 

"Sad," Henry says, "No family, no church?"

"Not a lot of family, and they mostly cut ties," she tilts her head and looks at Hannibal. "Did you get a look at his liver?" 

"No," Hannibal says. "Cirrosis?" 

"And fatty as hell," Beverly confirms. "Probably a big drinker, which fits with what the brother told the troopers." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal catches motion just before Will knocks on the shop window. Dan looks up and glances at Hannibal in surprise even as Henry is opening the door for him. "Hello, Will," Hannibal says when he walks in. 

"Doctor," Will says. "Agents." He smiles at Dan as he walks past him, and then his eyes are on Hannibal. Dan's eyes track the newcomer as he passes. 

"I shoulda known you'd be mixed up in this," Henry says with the exact same cheerful gruffness with which he'd responded to Dan's teasing. 

"You know me," Will agrees. He leans against the table where most of their files are currently stacked. "Jessel's at it again, by the way. We found a trot line yesterday just north of Cow Island with those damned purple jugs from Dollar General." 

"You're still worried about poaching?" Henry asks. "We found a dead body, Graham."

"So did we. In Jessel's trot line." He holds up his palm to show off one of Hannibal's neat little bandages. "Com'mon, Hank, you can put the fear of God in him with that." 

Beverly frowns. "Who's Jessel?" 

"Danny's cousin," Henry says. "But everyone's Danny's cousin." 

"He's fishing illegally," Will explains. "Everyone in town knows it, but no one's ever caught him in the act." 

"It's not illegal up there," Henry says. "Not unless we catch him with endangered fish." 

"Which you're not going to do if you aren't checking the lines," Will argues. 

"Can't you just leave it," Dan says in a quiet voice. It's the first thing he's said since Will arrived. "Will, come on, you know how thin we're stretched, and that's miles from our patch. We hare off after Jessel up there, we can't do our jobs down here." 

Will's posture shifts, shoulders rolling as he leans forward, his voice and face softening. "I know, Dan. It's just so frustrating, knowing he's getting away with it. I pulled two dead sturgeon out of the water this spring with his hooks in their mouths. Two. He's not even fishing sturgeon. Hundred year old fish, just collateral damage." 

"If we could prove it, we'd bust him," Henry says, as Dan frowns and looks away. 

"Bust who?" Jim asks as he joins them from the back. "Please tell me you've got a suspect." 

"Unrelated," Will tells him. 

Jim snorts. "Well, add it to the pile. We've got enough unrelated cases on the docket." 

Hannibal ponders that. "You're so certain Mr. Burgess is not connected to the rest of the murders?" 

"One of these things is not like the other," Jim singsongs. "Three women of the same general physical type, age, social status, from a narrow geographic area, two dead in the same way, disposed of the same way, the other one a panic kill. Then Burgess. If you guys hadn't pulled him out of the same river we wouldn't be assuming any kind of connection." He shrugs. "Sad old gay alcoholic doesn't fit the pattern." 

Everyone in the room is watching Jim, except for Hannibal, who is always watching everyone - which is why he notices, at Jim's last, that Dan's eyes dart to Will as if he's trying to make contact. Will doesn't seem to notice. 

"I don't think you're supposed to call murder victims 'sad old gay alcoholics,' Beverly says. "At least not in front of company." 

"Sorry," Jim tells the Wildlife agents with false contrition. "It's just that old gay alcoholics are my people." 

Will is smiling a little when he steps forward to tap on the map pinned to the wall. Hannibal had done his best to pencil in Will's topographical shapes from memory, and Will doesn't seem to have any complaints. "Y'all found him here, right?" 

"'Bout a half an inch up," Dan supplies. "On the Big Gonsoulin."

"We were using the high water to check on that eagle nest west of Jackass Bay without having to hike it or take a bateaux," Henry says, as Jim marks the spot with a pin. "We didn't see him going up, but he was there going back. Might have been underwater, or the flood current might have just been carrying him that fast. It's been a weird week." 

"Amen," Dan agrees. 

Hannibal takes in the shapes made by the map. Bigarno is just at the edge of the planned floodway, bounded on the south by Lake Fausse Point and the north by the green shading of one of the area's many state parks and wildlife areas. Burgess was found about six miles north and east of the town, in the flood zone. Out of curiosity he mentally places Will's home on the map. The man lives inside the bounds of the floodway's levees and a mere two miles from where the body of Nathan Burgess was recovered. Practically in his backyard, by the local standard. 

"If he'd come down by Lake Rond he'd've been closer to me," Will points out. He draws a line with his finger. "So, when these folks asked me to help figure out where the body came from, I thought, must have come down this branch of Bayou Chêne from the Atchafalaya, got pushed west by all that water coming down from Morganza."

The wildlife agents are nodding. Hannibal leaves them only part of his attention as they discuss the water and topology, the thickness of the forest and how it might slow the water's flow in places. 

On this enlarged and detailed map, it appears Will Graham's land is bounded on the south by the Lake Fausse State Park, on the West by Dauterive lake, on the east by Bayou Chêne. The house really will be an island, right now, a boat on the sea, encircled entirely by water. A castle heavily fortified not with crenelations but with an extensive and treacherous moat, defended by canons and harnessed beasts and wild monsters. It makes Hannibal think of the Rocca di Ravaldino, except that the rivers are better than walls, in that Will could never be trapped inside. A man like him could disappear into the swamps without a trace. 

He has a strange desire to take Will to see the fortress at Forli and give to him the story Hannibal's mother had passed down, of how their ancestress had stood above the gates and cried defiance at the army arrayed against her - bragged that if they murdered her captive children, she had the power in her belly to create new heirs, so they could have no power over her. According to some tellings, she'd made quite a show of demonstrating the necessary equipment. He thinks the tale would make Will smile. 

By the time Troopers Hotard and Jackson arrive with Dr. Jenkins, their map board is up to date. There markers for the bodies they've recovered, and for the last known location of the disappearances they suspect are connected. The latter form a cloud stretching from Baton Rouge to Lafayette along the I-10 corridor, spanning both sides of the flooded basin, each attached to a small photograph and a notecard summary by a piece of string. 

"Holy moly," Dr. Jenkins says when she sees it. She pulls her sunglasses out of her hair and folds them absently as she stares, taking it all in. "All these girls?" 

"How did you narrow it down to just these?" Trooper Jackson asks, frowning at the map. 

"These is plenty," Dr. Jenkins mutters. "You want more?" 

"It's just," Jackson clarifies, "I work part of this area. I know what the backlog looks like. You used some kind of criteria to narrow it down, or this whole map would be covered in string." He taps one of the cards. "Says she went missing in 2003. If your net is that wide, I'd expect more fish."

"We're looking for women between sixteen and thirty-four," Jack tells the assembled group, slipping into commander mode. "Mostly but perhaps not exclusively African American. They were all reported missing by loved ones or employers, but did not receive police attention because various factors of their history or lifestyle made it seem likely to the original investigators that they had contributed to their own disappearances. They were nearly all involved with drugs, runaway reports, underage drinking, prostitution or petty crime at some point prior to their disappearance, but for most of them, there's no evidence of recent criminal activity." 

"There's a lot of drug money and human trafficking moving down the I-10 corridor," Skip Hotard offers. He leans back against the table next to Beverly and crosses his arms. "New Orleans gangs got split and displaced to Houston and Baton Rouge after Katrina. Put down new roots, picked up new markets, fought for new territory. It's a monster of a network for drugs, guns and tail." He smiles an apology at Beverly and Dr. Jenkins. "If you'll pardon me saying, ladies. There are a lot of...indelicate establishments along that stretch, too. That truck stop where we met up with y'all before gets pretty hoppin' at night, for example. You can't hardly hear that tiger roar for all the yowlin'."

Beverly snorts. "No evidence of recent criminal activity. That doesn't rule out the possibility there was criminal activity but no evidence, sure. But there were other factors. Where we have a good idea of the missing women's last movements, they seem to have gone missing between points of habit. They weren't taken from work or home, but during a grocery run, a morning jog, a commute. If they owned a vehicle, the vehicle was recovered undamaged."

"Not Aleesha Coleman's," Brian points out. "She died between point A and B - home and work - in her own car, where she was found and the car recovered. We think she's our in. If every other abduction or murder went smoothly, hers went all wrong." 

"They didn't expect her to fight," Will says, quietly, from behind Hannibal. 

"Is that a plural 'they' or a gender neutral 'they'?" Jim asks him. "We have evidence of sexual assault on Victoria Allain." 

"Huh," Beverly says, eyes wide and thoughtful. "I mean, there's nothing to say it wasn't object penetration. _Could_ we be looking for a woman? That would explain how the killer is getting them alone, maybe? Woman with fake engine trouble flags down other women traveling alone? Follows them from the bus stop and asks for help with something?" 

"I meant that there's two of them," Will says. "Or at least two of them. Aleesha was boxed into the car. She couldn't escape out of the other door when the murderer shot her and poured gasoline on her." 

"I'm sorry," Skip Hotard says, "Who are you? We didn't get introduced before. What agency are you here for?" 

"Oh, I'm here under my own agency," Will says, smiling to himself. His shoulder brushes Hannibal's, inviting him into the joke. "Will Graham. I'm just here to drive the boat." 

"Ooh," Dr. Jenkins says, stepping forward and ignoring Hotard's skeptical look. "You're the one who drew in the elevations?" 

"Well, not on this copy," Will says, shrugging one shoulder, which brushes Hannibal's again. "Someone with a good memory did them over, I guess." 

"Your data doesn't match mine, but the last good government survey down here that I know of was in 2006, and the gradation wasn't anywhere near as fine. Were you working off an older map, or new survey data from one of the timber or oil companies?" 

"That's just how it is," Will explains. "Or how it was before the flood, anyway." 

She blinks at him. "So you just memorized the elevations of the entire area in, what, five foot increments? From visuals? Laser measurement? What?" 

"No, I just know what's growing where," Will says. "That tells you what floods and how often. How deep the water is, too, depending on what's growing there." 

"Oh," Henry says, laughing. "Hey, that's an old Chitimacha trick. You appropriating my culture, white boy?"

"No, it just makes sense," Will says, sounding slightly defensive. 

"Don't you lie. I've seen you putting out cane traps." 

"I buy those from Louise!"

"Clever trick or no," Hannibal says, interrupting what sounds like a fresh round of old teasing, "you must have prodigious visual recall to create such a map from memory." 

"I did tell you I have a good imagination," Will demures. "Anyway, it's pretty crude. We can do better. If y'all can get us some big aerial photos, recent to this spring, maybe, Hank and I can probably work out a pretty accurate flood map from the colors in the canopy." 

Dr. Jenkins looks extremely excited by this prospect and runs off with her phone to her ear.

"That'll help us know where and how far the water could push something the size of a body," Dan says, squinting at the map, "but if we don't know where it started from we can't figure out where it might end up." 

"We split into teams," Jack says. "Someone local and someone with experience securing a scene on each boat." 

"We came by truck," Jackson volunteers, "but if there's a spare Wildlife boat or someone lends us one, I can pilot it." 

"I thought you had a boat?" Jim asks. 

"That was Trooper Robideaux's craft," Hotard tells them. "They need her on the water up north of the bridge." He shoots Jack an apologetic look. "I know we promised you state resources, but frankly, the LST haven't got a lot of resources to spare. We might be all you get for a while." 

"I can source you a boat," Will volunteers. "There are a few folks who have decent ones up for sale. One of them will be willing to rent to Uncle Sam." 

"Perfect," Jack says, rubbing his hands together. "Okay, people. Three teams. Once we get our maps together we'll divide up likely search areas. Dr. Lecter, you want to stay with Graham?" 

"If you don't mind," Hannibal says. "I feel we've worked well together so far. If you have no objections?" The look Will gives him is so far from an objection that Hannibal isn't surprised at all that Will turns it into a wink once Jack glances away. 

"Zeller, you're with them. Katz-" 

"I'll take Wildlife," Beverly says with no hesitation. "It makes sense for you to stick with State Police and head things up." 

Jack stares at her for a long moment, but she just stares back. Hannibal isn't entirely sure what passes between them, but Jack does not react as Hannibal would have expected to her sudden insistence on her own assignment. "Makes sense," he eventually says, and her face softens into relief. 

"Now we just need to figure out where to start looking," Brian mutters. "That's a whole lot of water." 

"About that," Henry says. He exchanges a look with Will and another with Dan. "I got another old Indian trick might help us out. Assuming all y'all can tell a hawk from a buzzard." 

"I guess I'm going with Jack, then," Jim says dryly, earning himself a glare. "What's the plan?" 

"We're looking for dead things," Will fills in for him. "If you want to find dead things, look for scavengers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Notes on beignets, coffee, and on the strong Native American influence on the region's culture and history. With some bonus info on how I'm naming all these millions of OCs, dead and alive... I think it's a good trick. ](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/169314555541/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Never ask what's in the gumbo," Will says. He hands Hannibal a bowl. "That's a rule."_
> 
> Or, Will hosts a sunset swamp tour dinner cruise.

**Wednesday, May 18, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bayou Chêne**

The swamp is so loud in the growing dark that Hannibal can actually feel the vibration of the sound humming in his maxillary sinuses and at the back of his throat. He had not particularly noticed any part of the roar while the sun was overhead, but the moment Will cut the engine of their little craft, the presence of the sound had been oppressive and overwhelming.

Everything around them is alive.

It's getting too dark now to look for scavenger birds overhead - birds which have so far only lead them to a bloated deer carcass and the head and spine of someone's wayward cow. Hannibal assumes they've stopped to discuss retiring for the evening, until Will starts pulling things out of the boat’s many compartments.

Brian gets up from his seat to stretch his legs and back, bending against the frame of his own hands on his hips until Hannibal can hear the pop of shifting synovial fluid. "How much longer are we staying out here?" He asks. He arches his spine one more time, then stops, looking out over the trees. "That was a really pretty sunset." He looks suddenly sheepish and glances at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, as if he expects to be teased for the observation.

"Very vivid," Hannibal agrees. He turns to watch Will, his interest piqued by scents that barely carry over the dissipating engine fumes. "Is the sky always so lovely over the water, or is tonight a special occasion?"

Will doesn't look up. "There's all kinds of shit in the air," he says, unromantically. "Water, pollen, smoke and fumes out of Houston. You need real dirty air for all the bright colors."

"Beauty from corruption." Hannibal is unable to stop himself smiling. "One could argue that a worthy thing becomes more precious with the knowledge that it has been transformed from the base or ugly, rather than merely the mundane."

"Because it had a harder climb?" Will looks up at him, his eyes glinting in the last reflection of the dying sun. "Air pollution doesn't become a good thing just because we like to look at it."

"You don't find a flower more marvelous on a barren waste?" Hannibal crosses his legs and folds his hands, settling in for the argument. "The country around Chernobyl is said to be some of the loveliest in the Ukraine, these days. Is there not a sort of poetry in that?"

"Manure may grow great roses, but that don't make the shit smell sweeter." Will stops what he's doing and straightens up to look at Hannibal more directly. "Though I suppose it's a comfort for a pig farmer's wife."

Hannibal beams.

"Oh my god," Brian mutters. He drops into his seat, slumping back against the meager cushion overy the backrest. "I need to get off this boat."

"You should be drinking more water. I know it doesn't seem as hot when we're moving, but you're still sweating."

"I'm not dehydrated," Brian mutters. "Just slightly nauseous." He catches Hannibal's eye and frowns, then straightens up. "Sorry, Doc. It's just been a long day."

Hannibal tilts his head slightly to one side, allowing the excuse. Before he can form an appropriate response, though, he's distracted by the strong smell of meat, onions and peppers, and turns to where Will has his hands in a small foam ice chest, unwrapping a nest of towels to reveal the cast iron lid of a dutch oven. "That smells divine," Hannibal tells him.

Will smiles without looking up, and starts dishing dark stew into paper bowls. He passes a bowl and a plastic spoon to Brian, making Hannibal wait for the second dish.

"If you want to play food tourist you need to try a proper gumbo."

"Fuck," Brian mumbles appreciatively around his first mouthful.

"May I ask after the ingredients?" Hannibal moves to crouch beside Will, breathing deep and examining the pot and ladle as he pours. There is some kind of mylar hot-pack in with the towels, to keep the food reasonably warm. "Onions, celery and peppers are essential, as I understand it?"

"Never ask what's in the gumbo," Will says. He hands Hannibal a bowl. "That's a rule."

"Surely I'm allowed to guess?" Hannibal shifts back to his seat examining his dinner. The dark broth coats the cheap plastic spoon satisfyingly. "Sausage. Mushrooms. Shellfish." He inhales, closing his eyes, and then tastes the broth. He had been braced for salt and the pasteurized flavor of commercial stock, but that is absent here. Will started this meal with bone and flesh. He opens his eyes to weigh the color and appearance of the meat and shellfish, then tries another bite. "Freshwater mussels I think, rather than oysters."

Will's quick grin, just as quickly hidden, lets him know he's right. "Heck of a lot easier to open," he admits.

"Did you make the sausage yourself?" Hannibal tests it again carefully at Will's nod. "Some duck or pheasant in with the pork, I think?"

"Okay, you're too good at this," Will complains. He remains cross-legged on the deck with his own bowl.

"He's ridiculous," Brian tells Will, but not without fondness. "It's his nose. We've figured out six different lab tests at least that he makes redundant, and he smelled, uh, someone's lung cancer on her breath right after he met her."

"Really?" Will asks. Hannibal isn't sure what his tone means, or the way he turns to stare. "I guess you go around sniffing lots of folks, then. And here I thought I was special."

Brian chokes on his gumbo.

"This, though, I'm not sure about," Hannibal says, displaying a shred of lean, smoky meat. "Not rabbit."

"Not rabbit," Will agrees. "Good try, though."

Hannibal closes his eyes again to savor, comparing flavor and texture with memory. His revery is interrupted by Brian's yelp.

"Those damn flies again!" he complains, slapping at his arm and almost spilling the last of his gumbo. "The mosquitos are bad enough…"

"Oh, here." Will tosses him a green can from the open compartment near his knee.  
"Go up front away from the food, though."

As much as he hates to rush a fine meal, Hannibal hurries to finish his gumbo before unidentified aerosols come into play. When the mist drifts back to him with the slight breeze, Hannibal narrows his eyes and turns to look at Will, who is packing away their meal. Well, the mystery of his terrible 'aftershave' is solved, as well as Will's stoicism in the face of biting insects. Situational pragmatism, then, rather than a taste for terrible scents.

"So what's the plan?" Brian asks when he returns. "It's too dark to see buzzards or whatever now. Are we done for the day?"

"Hardly." Will pulls a few pieces of equipment from an open compartment that Hannibal recognizes as similar to the boolye or Q-Beam lights that Dan had used to illuminate their investigation of Nathan Burgess's corpse. "Hunting with these is illegal, by the way. But we're not exactly hunting."

"I'm missing something," Brian says as he takes one of the lights. "I'm pretty sure we're not just supposed to shine these into the woods and hope we see a corpse."

"Animals that are active in low light have a reflective membrane in their eyes to make the most of what light they get," Will explains.

Hannibal makes a sound of understanding, and Will shifts to look at him.

"You want to shine it right along the water's edge, just at the surface. We'll cruise slow. We're looking for red - the color's just like the shine off a coke can, except we're looking for a little round spot about the size of a ping pong ball."

"Red is an unusual color for eyeshine," Hannibal says as he takes his own light and tests it. "Blue-green or yellow is much more usual. I take it we're not looking for dogs or wildcats."

It's fairly dark, now, but in the oblique glow at the fringe of Hannibal's hunting beam, Will's own eyes reflect back glints of white in the darkness. "Not dogs or wildcats, no. They wouldn't dare get too close to the water at this time of night."

Will explains the use of the lights, and their hunting method - short bursts and sweeps along the banks of the dark bayous. There are a few false alarms from clusters of small turtles reflecting little red pinpoints before sliding into the water.

Will doesn't pay any attention to Brian's brief excitement at these finds. His posture shifts, though, once they leave the main river, entering a narrow slough with low hanging tree branches overhead, blocking out the starlight. The change puts Hannibal on alert as well.

"Oh hell," Brian mutters. He keeps waving his hand over his head. "Are there snakes in the trees? Snakes that jump on you out of the trees?"

"No snakes that jump on you out of the trees," Will assures him, amused. "Well, not normally. Probably a lot of them have climbed trees to get away from the flood water."

"Don't say that!"

"Would you rather I lied to you?"

"Maybe?" Brian shines the light up into the branches over the water's edge.

"Honestly, be more worried about bugs, even with the spray. Don't touch the moss if you can help it. Good way to get chiggers."

"I don't know what that is but it sounds racist," Brian complains.

"Little biting bugs. Very itchy. They'll go for your junk if they get under your clothes." Brian curses and shines his light onto his hands and arms, checking for insects. It casts enough glow back into the boat that Hannibal can clearly see Will's amused expression. "If you go hiking around in the right kinds of brush, you should partner up with someone after. Check each other over carefully for little blood suckers." His eyes meet Hannibal's. "Might have to borrow your shower again later, Doctor."

"By all means," Hannibal says, feeling gracious. "I think the amount of repellant you used should have you quite safe," Hannibal assures Brian.

"Yeah, you're fine," Will agrees. "Dr. Lecter's the one who might need a helping hand."

"I see one," Hannibal says, forestalling that line of discussion. His light has struck something shining red, some twenty feet ahead and to their right. Brian's light swivels to join it, and Will slows the boat to a drift.

"Keep the beam on it," Will instructs. "I don't know why, but it keeps them in one place. The second you drop it he'll go under." As they get closer, the long, nobbled head of the reptile comes into view, much larger than the one Hannibal saw the previous day. "Oh. She. Well, okay, we can move on, then."

Will reaches out, his hand warm over Hannibal's, and turns off the handheld light.

"Why she?" Brian asks. "Shit, that is big. You really jumped into this water with these things earlier?"

"In broad daylight," Will agrees. "In deeper water." He stands and looks over the side of the boat, where Brian is still pointing the light. His hand is still on Hannibal's wrist. "Shh, listen, do you hear?"

Hannibal had taken the faint, low chirps for more of of the omnipresent mating shouts of frogs, but when he follows Will's gaze he finds smaller shapes in the darkness, closer to the bank, their dark bodies striped with paler bands. "Her young," he concludes.

"Oh wow," Brian says, suddenly captivated.

"Which means no males around. Males eat the little ones. This is pretty late for her to still be letting the little guys hang close - she'll be in season soon if she's not already and the fellas will come from miles around." Will sits back down in the pilot's chair, his hand finally slipping from Hannibal's skin to shift the engine controls. "It also means we probably won't find anything around here, since we're hoping for multiple scavengers."

Brian takes a few photos with his phone before shutting off his light. The moment he does, the mother alligator drops under the water. The juveniles follow one by one, small eyes winking out in the darkness as they dive. "Jimmy's going to be jealous," he says happily before pocketing his phone.

They continue to cruise through the dark bayou. The sky brightens when the moon comes out, but there are still far more stars visible overhead than Hannibal can remember seeing since his childhood. Summer in Louisiana boasts very different stars to a Lithuanian winter, but there is still enough similarity that he finds himself unsure if the occasional flash of firefly light exists in the real world or his memories.

"Tired?" Will asks him, voice soft enough not to carry far over the thrum of the engine. "We could call it a night. Or you could take a rest out on the deck. I've got plenty of towels to lay out and keep your nice jeans clean."

"I'm not tired in the sense you mean," Hannibal admits, and then frowns to himself at his own surprising honesty. He sits forward and turns his light back on, examining the water again.

"You could tell me about it?" Will suggests. "Job gets you down after a while, I know, and this is a hell of a case you've got."

"Is that why you left the force?" Hannibal asks. "Job got you down, after a while?"

"Something like that," Will admits. "This guy came at me with a knife and I had to shoot him. Took some time off, did the therapy and everything, but I was never really okay about it. Then not long after I got back on active duty there was another shoot out. My partner and the suspect both ended up dead. When all the paperwork was done I just...kind of started driving. Lived in my car for a while. Eventually I ended up here."

"Fixing boats."

Will shrugs and tilts his head back, looking up at the stars. His profile is lovely in the starlight. Hannibal wishes, not for the first time, that he'd brought proper drawing supplies on this trip. "That's what my dad did his whole life. Seemed a lot less stressful than being a homicide cop in the deadliest city in the country. It's peaceful out here."

"Very peaceful." He looks at Will's mouth, parted on a faint sigh, and decides an offering is not out of order. "It's very strange, but it reminds me a bit of my homeland. That's what I was thinking, when you caught me drifting."

"Oh yeah?" Will turns his head to look at him. "I could be wrong, but I didn't think there were a lot of swamps in Lithuania."

Of course Will already knows from whence his family hails. He's done his homework. "It's more about the wildness of the place. The sense that after a misstep one might, perhaps, be eaten alive."

Will's grin is sudden and bright. "Alligators getting to you?"

Hannibal leans forward just far enough to confirm, despite the smoke of the motor, that Will still smells faintly of Hannibal's own shampoo. "I didn't say anything about alligators."

Will's pupils are already wide in the darkness, but the fine lines around his eyes soften from their smile, then tighten with interest. He has just turned to look at Hannibal more directly when Brian calls back from the front of the boat.

"Hey guys? I've got three of them, this time." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A spoiler-free version of Will's gumbo recipe. ](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/170053103346/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)
> 
>  
> 
> Since I haven't mentioned it in a little while, check out the [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/jessie.iesika/playlist/2WvnBsdaa54gk64Fja2cif) and the [tag for this fic on my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/what-the-water-gave-me) for all sorts of extra tidbits.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Okay," Will says, and Hannibal opens his eyes in time to see him heft his shotgun and crack it open. He removes the two shells inside and replaces them with more from his pocket before closing the gun and fiddling with a lever behind the chambers. "Don't stick any body parts you want to keep over the edge of the boat. They're not likely to jump in, even if they are all worked up, but don't dangle any bait if you can help it. They can jump straight up almost as high as they are long."_
> 
> Or, Hannibal is given reason to question his emotional state.

**Wednesday, May 18, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bayou Chêne**

There is one alligator near the bow of their boat, and two more pairs of odd, red, reptilian eyes moving away from them down the bayou. Hannibal expects Will to follow them, but instead he cuts their engine and closes his eyes. 

"What are you —"

_"Shhshh"—_ Will hisses, holding up a hand. He tilts his head and closes his eyes, so Hannibal does the same, trying to imagine himself into the other man's experience. 

The chaotic blanket of sound resolves itself with some concentration into a number of layers. A strong, humming buzz, a sort of clicking, sizzling static, a deep, basso growling, a slightly more recognizable roar of crickets and small birds, all laced together with occasional whoops and moans. With only a very few exceptions, Hannibal is entirely unsure of what sort of creature or phenomenon is creating each part of the tapestry, which makes it difficult to pinpoint what Will might be searching for. 

As the boat drifts, slowly coming more or less to a stop, Hannibal becomes aware that the splashing against the hull had been drowning out the sound of moving water around them, the ripples of their passage lapping rhythmically against cypress knees and other obstructions. And ahead and to their left somewhere, separate from that rhythm, occasional larger splashes. 

"Okay," Will says, and Hannibal opens his eyes in time to see him heft his shotgun and crack it open. He removes the two shells inside and replaces them with more from his pocket before closing the gun and fiddling with a lever behind the chambers. "Don't stick any body parts you want to keep over the edge of the boat. They're not likely to jump in, even if they are all worked up, but don't dangle any bait if you can help it. They can jump straight up almost as high as they are long." 

Brian places himself firmly in the center of the seating well, at the center of the boat, as far from the edges as he can get. 

"The creatures we've seen so far haven't seemed aggressive," Hannibal says. He examines Will's face as he moves around the boat arranging gear, to be sure the man isn't simply teasing Brian again. 

"So far we haven't tried to take their food away from them," Will says. 

"Will two shots be enough, do you think?" 

"I'm not planning to shoot any of them if I don't have to. That would be illegal, for a start. Hunting season's a long way off. Hopefully we can just scare them away. But, I'm loaded with slugs just in case." He starts the boat, raising his voice over the roar. "They usually drop at the sound of the first shot. I can't actually be sure what they're going to do, though. Everything's been disrupted by the flood."

"I don't think I like this," Brian complains, quiet enough for Hannibal to hear without carrying to their pilot. 

"We'll be fine," Hannibal assures him, knowing his nervousness now is genuine rather than bluster. "We are safe in the boat, and in the hands of an expert." 

"Jimmy thinks he was trying to impress you," Brian says. "With the crazy risk taking earlier, like a dumb teenager? So maybe do me a favor and tell him how impressed you are by guys who don't take crazy risks." 

"I don't know what you mean," Hannibal says. "He's been entirely professional."

He happily ignores Brian's flat, disbelieving stare in favor of looking over the gear Will has laid out in easy reach. Most notable are a pair of short spears or harpoons with what look like homemade metal points, but there are also several nets and large hooks on poles. 

"Oh, wow," Will says, just loud enough to be heard over the engine. He cuts the motor again and shifts toward the front as they coast closer to a dark mass in the water. Hannibal stands to shine his light toward it, and sees at least a dozen red reflections. When Brian's beam joins his, the light is visibly unsteady. 

There's a sudden churning of the water, a rolling, thrashing sort of motion, and Will curses before raising his gun and firing one barrel into the water. Their boat continues sluggishly forward, into the group, which scatters, but the great, rolling beast continues in its motion just below the surface. 

"I need help," Will calls. "Poke the damned thing. Hit it with a pole or something." 

"Why the hell do you want us to poke it?!" Brian shouts back. 

"I can't shoot it if it won't hold still!" Will calls back, frustrated. "You have to hit them just right. It has something. I think I saw a shoe." 

Hannibal grabs a telescoping pole with a blunt hook on one end and moves to the side of the boat as they get closer. Brian crowds him beside him despite his fear, more desperate to see what's going on than he is to stay safe in the center of the boat. Hannibal reaches out, carefully, and strikes the thing. The resistance offered by the scaled hide is roughly what he would expect if he were striking firm and stony ground.

It whirls on him, dropping shredded flesh to snap at the pole, which sends Brian back away from the edge and allows him more room to move. Which is a good thing, as a mere moment later, Will shouts for him to get clear, drops to one knee, and shoots the animal neatly in the back of the head. It thrashes wildly for a few seconds, but Hannibal manages to hook it around one leg before it can go under. The strength of the animal is such that he briefly fears he may be dragged into the water, even braced as he is against the side of the seating well. 

Will leaps back to join him, and, as it turns belly up, stabs it right through the throat with one of the ugly harpoons. The barbs hold fast under the creature's armored skin, and it slows, struggling less and less, until it stops. 

"Agent, can you get the net?" Will snaps the order under the guise of a question. It gets Brian moving again, and he joins them at the side, net in hand, to retrieve what remains they can from the surface.

The boat has come to a stop with its snub nose buried in brush in the shallows, and doesn't rock or shift as they struggle with the heavy animal, but Will doesn't seem concerned that they are apparently partially beached in the mud. It provides them a stable platform from which to work as they fish in the shallows for human remains. Brian manages to find the shoe Will had spotted, a man's boot still laced tightly to the remains of a man's lower leg, twisted and torn at the knee. 

"They can rip you apart when they roll like that," Will says quietly as they work. He uses the spear in the animal's neck to drag its body alongside the flat front of the boat. "A living, intact person, I mean. They like their meat squishier, though." It takes all three of them to heft the alligator aboard. 

This time they have proper body bags aboard, at least, and Hannibal assists Brian in cataloging and photographing what he pulls aboard, while Will holds the light. 

"Can't find the head," Brian mutters. He's figured out how to attach one of the telescoping poles to the net he's been using. "There's something down there on the bottom, though. A log maybe." 

"Doctor, can you toss me that roll of tape from under the windshield?" Hannibal finds the spool of bright, plastic ribbon and lofts it gently to Will, who stands on tiptoe and ties a long strip of it to a tree branch. "I'll take down our location from GPS when we're done," he says, "but just in case. If your boss can get police divers out here-" 

Hannibal sees what is about to happen too late to decide if he wants to do anything about it, as the presumed corpse of their man-eater thrashes once and rolls, huge, muscular tail whipping toward Will's ankles. Will doesn't even have time to shout before the blow sends him over the edge, into the water. 

Hannibal expects the creature to follow, but while apparently not dead it is surely gravely wounded and in pain. It crawls across the deck toward them, blood pouring from its throat as the spear embedded there is jostled. Brian scrambles back, up onto the raised area behind them where the motor is mounted, shouting in distress. Hannibal takes a moment to scoop up the second harpoon before retreating, and nearly loses a hand as the beast lunges for him. 

A direct shot to the head with a 20 gauge slug had not killed the thing. With hide like old teak and a body of solid muscle, Hannibal is not sure where the animal may be vulnerable to a stab. He should have asked Will for a lesson in reptile anatomy. 

Through the palate to the brain, perhaps, though if he misses the no-doubt small target, or the blade bounces off bone, he will lose the spear. Better, perhaps, to strike at the eyes and hope pain will turn it away. But, with the enormous mouth open, he can't reach or even see the eyes. 

The thing moves for him again, forcing Hannibal to dodge back and to the side. At the same time, he hears a splash and, in his periphery, sees that Will is hauling himself back onto the deck behind the creature. On the face of it, this seems a positive development, though it kills Hannibal's swiftly formed plan to trip Brian up as a distraction. 

"Shoot it! Shoot it!" Brian shouts. Will's shotgun is not far out of reach, but Hannibal knows it to now be empty, and the only ammunition he's aware of has just been dunked in the river. He considers diving for it anyway - if he can get it to Will, and Will has dry shells somewhere —

"Get it to bite the pole!" Will orders. 

Well, that's easy enough. All it takes is one poke and the alligator's jaws snap down, splintering the haft of the spear. Hannibal twists it, trying to at least do some damage, and the thing twists back, turning its broad head nearly perpendicular to the ground. 

Will drops hard onto its back with both knees, one hand pushing down with all his weight on the thing's head to hold its jaws shut, then presses a long knife to the back of its neck and _shoves_. 

The alligator convulses once, throwing Will clear to roll into the seating well, and then it goes still, spinal column apparently severed. 

Hannibal stays where he is and keeps his grip on the spear. He feels Brian's hand on his shoulder, gripping hard from above and behind him. Will lays on his back in the well with his feet on the deck, so liberally smeared with blood that Hannibal can't tell if he's injured. He seems to have had the wind knocked out of him, and perhaps a head injury from his fall, but he rolls to all fours after a few seconds and lurches on top of the alligator. 

He grips the handle of his knife with both hands and hauls it free, then shoves and kicks the heavy corpse until the thing is on its back again. This time, he cuts its throat, teeth gritted with determined focus. There is blood on his face, and on his teeth. 

When he looks up, there is a hard, calm light in his eyes. "Sorry about that," he says, and then flops back into a sitting position, knife clattering to the deck. It isn't one of the ones Hannibal has seen before - heavy and black, with a fixed, curved blade. Hannibal doesn't know where he's been keeping it. It seems impossible he could have hidden a thirty-centimeter knife under his shorts and fishing shirt. 

"I think I fucking pissed myself," Brian says a moment before his knees buckle. Hannibal helps him down and sits beside him, feigning the exhaustion of faded adrenaline while staring at the dead reptile. 

And, more importantly, staring at Will as he licks the blood from his lips. 

[](http://sleepyfortress.tumblr.com/post/172912902563/i-read-a-completely-riveting-piece-of-fanfic-a)  


Art by the wonderful [ sleepyfortress](http://sleepyfortress.tumblr.com/). Go tell them how amazing it is!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alligators don't usually swarm like this, but there have been verified (but rare) reports of weird feeding frenzy behavior during crazy weather/water conditions. Combine mating season with the recent flash flood, and I figured I could let them act a little strange. 
> 
> They really are hard to kill. Will knocked his unconscious, the first time.
> 
> A million thanks to sleepyfortress for the amazing artwork!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"And here I thought we'd had the exciting day," Beverly says as she stares at the dead alligator on the deck. "I didn't think it would be this big."_
> 
> _"'Fucking huge man eating dinosaur' not clear enough for you?" Brian asks._
> 
> _"No, I just thought you were exaggerating." She leans over and raps it on the snout as if knocking on a door. "Neat. Think I could get some shoes?"_
> 
> _"We should talk," Will says through a tired smile._
> 
> Or, Hannibal begins to realize just how fucked he may be.

**Wednesday, May 18, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bayou Chêne**

"I just want to get back on dry land," Brian complains. "We can deal with this there, in the light, where we're not surrounded by more of these things." 

Hannibal watches them from Will's usual high seat at the helm. He has his legs crossed and propped on the ice chest, to avoid the blood now running freely down into the seating well and out the scuppers to rejoin the river it came from. 

"Ordinarily I'd agree," Will says. "I'd rather get him home before I try to skin him, but whatever remains are in his gut are going to get digested." 

"Well, what if we put it in a morgue unit?" Brian asks. "Freeze it until tomorrow when we're not all running on fumes." 

Will frowns. "Can I get it back, though?"

Brian seems taken aback. "Get it back? Why would you _want_ it back?" 

"That's a couple hundred bucks worth of hide and meat," Will says, gesturing with his knife. "You just need some photos and the gut contents." 

Brian doesn't seem to know what to say. 

"Come on, Doctor, back me up," Will asks. When he looks up at Hannibal there is drying blood still streaked in smears on his face. "The throat hide is a mess, but we could still get you a nice pair of fancy shoes out of him." 

"I tend to buy my shoes in Italy," Hannibal says, crossing then uncrossing his ankles so he can examine his blood splattered loafers. 

Hannibal's refusal to play along with his flirtation makes Will frown again. "All right. We can take him back to the marina, at least. I didn't bring my air compressor, anyway." 

"Great! I need twelve showers." Brian takes two more photos, then gingerly tiptoes his way to his seat, trying to keep his sneakers dry. "Let's get the fuck out of here before something else attacks us." 

Will sighs and gets to his feet. Hannibal vacates the man's chair and moves to his own without comment, earning a curious look from Will that Hannibal does not respond to. 

He pauses, watching Hannibal in silence for a moment, before turning the key in the ignition and concentrating on getting them out of the mud. 

 

 **Thursday, May 19, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

Brian is asleep when they get back in sight of the docks, worn out from a long day in the sun on the water, and the excitement of the evening. Hannibal has to shake him gently and discretely point out a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. 

Brian sends off a text message, and they assist Will in tying up the boat. Once the remains have been moved to the dock and the boat is secure, Will fetches a bucket from somewhere and starts sleucing the boat down with river water. 

A pickup with the Wildlife and Fisheries logo on the door is the first vehicle to arrive, followed closely by Beverly and Jim in one of their rentals. Dan is the first one to reach them, though, jumping down into the boat without a word of greeting to Hannibal or Brian on the dock. "Oh hell, Will, what happened?" He asks, urgently, one hand on Will's arms as he looks him over.

"I'm fine, Danny," Will says, sounding tired but warm. "Just a little scuffed and banged up. Got a bit of a problem, though." He nods toward their cargo, still stretched out on the deck. "I don't have tags for this monster." 

"Oh fuck that," Dan says. "I'll handle it. Are you sure you're alright?" 

"I will be once I can put my feet up. Maybe get a drink or two in me," Will concedes, wincing as he shifts his weight. "My ankle feels like a grapefruit." 

"And here I thought we'd had the exciting day," Beverly says as she stares at the dead alligator on the deck. "I didn't think it would be this big." 

"'Fucking huge man eating dinosaur' not clear enough for you?" Brian asks. 

"No, I just thought you were exaggerating." She leans over and raps it on the snout as if knocking on a door. "Neat. Think I could get some shoes?" 

"We should talk," Will says through a tired smile. 

Together they manage to get the animal loaded into the back of Dan's truck, along with what pieces they were able to retrieve of their victim. "What did you mean," Hannibal asks Beverly as they all wash their hands with a plastic jug. "About having an exciting day?" 

"We got two more," she says, gesturing between herself and Dan. "Well, two partials. And Jimmy-" 

"Let me tell it, let me tell it," Jim says slapping at her hand. "Zee, you're going to lose your shit." 

"Too late," Brian quips. "Alligator beat you to it." 

Jim makes a disgusted noise and puts his hand in Brian's face, turning to Hannibal as a potentially more appreciative audience. "Doc, you ever seen a saponified body?" 

"Uh, no way!" Brian says through Jim's fingers. 

"Only at the Mütter Museum," Hannibal confesses. While he has done some experimentation with soap making, he's always rendered or otherwise removed the fat from the body, first. "My experience with exhumed bodies is rather limited prior to my association with this team."

"This could be our break, yeah?" Brian says, eager, once he's pried Jim's palm off his mouth. "I haven't taken a deep dive into the literature for a few years, but we ought to be able to get a lot about the disposal conditions from that. I mean, for a start, we know the body was somewhere warm and wet - well, that's everywhere around here.- but somewhere anoxic." 

"Like deep mud," Beverly chimes in. "Or the bottom of a lake, which is more likely, since there were impressions of chicken wire. Which is a _great_ method, normally - lets all the little critters get at it without anything dragging the bones around for people to trip over while they're walking the dog. Whoever dumped this lady, they didn't intend her to be found." 

"I should get cleaned up," Will says. He takes the half-empty jug of water from the tailgate and hefts it. "Dan, you mind if I-?" 

"No, go ahead," Dan insists. Hannibal watches him watch Will upend the jug over his upturned face, so that the water runs back and through his bloody curls. 

"We can get _so much_ from this," Jim says. "If there's a good soil map to compare it to…"

"Dr. Jenkins is on it," Beverly volunteers. "She's got colleagues with the the National Geologic Survey lined up for a teleconference tomorrow." 

"Good," Brian says, "We need a dive team, too. We might have left more body back where we picked up this guy. I don't know why we haven't had one on standby since we found the first one." 

Jim rolls his eyes. "Politics." 

When Will's impromptu shower is over, he shakes water out of his hair and slits his eyes to look at Hannibal. "I was mostly joking about borrowing your shower again, earlier," he confesses. "But if you don't mind…" His slight smile and tilted jaw strongly suggest that he could make the imposition well worth Hannibal's while.

"Of course," Hannibal says. He fishes his key card out of his pocket and hands it over. "Agent, do you think you could drop Will off at the Cypress Inn before joining us at the morgue to unload your cargo?" 

Will's eyes widen slightly for just a moment before his face settles again. 

"Uh, sure," Dan says. 

"Not going to check out my ankle for me, Doctor?" 

"Perhaps in the morning, if it still pains you." Hannibal tells him. "I would recommend elevation and an ice pack, for now." This time, Will pouts slightly in disappointment - a decidedly more deliberate reaction. "Forgive me. There have been so many sudden developments on the case." 

"And duty calls," Will says, resigned. "I understand." He leans his shoulder against Dan's. "We should get going, then? I'm worn out. The sooner I get clean the sooner I can get to bed." 

"You're not sleeping on that awful old couch at your shop, are you?" Dan asks him as they walk toward the cab of the truck. 

"Well," Hannibal says, turning to the others as he refolds his handkerchief. "Shall we?" 

"We can't grab a nap, first?" Brian groans. "I'm done." 

"Fuck that. I wanna see the inside of the soap lady," Beverly says, grabbing him by the arm. 

"You didn't fight a prehistoric monster." 

"I'm pretty sure you didn't either."

Hannibal joins the others in the vehicle and lays his head back against the seat, closing his eyes and letting the others assume he is tired. 

"Who are the other bodies?" Brian asks the others. "You have IDs yet?" 

"One of them is Wanda Bercegeay," Beverly says. "Jack's driving up to tell her grandmother now, and then he's got to call Mercy." The car is silent for a moment. "I'm really glad I don't have his job, sometimes." 

"I got great prints off our soap lady," Jim says. "I was about to run them when you started texting us about almost dying. And we ought to be able to ID the other woman off dental." 

"All women?" Brian asks. "Ours is another guy. Not sure how we're going to ID him with what we've got, though. Fingers crossed for custom orthotics." 

"Just because you found that one lady through her podiatrist-" 

Hannibal tunes out their bickering. Behind his eyes, the fight replays, finishing once more with Will Graham licking moon-dark blood from bared and feral teeth. The image lingers far longer than he intends. 

This is becoming a potential problem.

He'll have to do something about it.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The bell above the door, remnant from when the building was a retail shop, jangles discordantly as Will enters in what appear to be yesterday's clothes, freshly laundered. He holds the door for Dan, who hurriedly makes his way to the open chair beside Hank without making eye contact with anyone, looking for all the world like a child slipping in to class after the bell._
> 
> _Will, by contrast, looks rested and relaxed. He pauses to stretch before taking a seat at the the foot of the table, where he sits with his knees comfortably spread._
> 
> _"Just in time," Jim says. Armed now with a pair of coffees, he moves to stand next to Jack. "You wanna start, or-"_
> 
> _Jack waves his free hand even as he accepts a fresh cup from Jim. "Tell us what you've got, and I'll tell you what's next."_
> 
> Or, Hannibal figures a few things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Pragnificent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PragmaticHominid/pseuds/Pragnificent) for getting me access to some papers that were behind a paywall, so I could be accurate about dead people turning into soap. You also get a special award for cheerleader and hand-holder in chief! Thank you BB. 
> 
> And thanks to [glymr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glymr/pseuds/glymr) again, just because I can never say thanks enough.

**Thursday, May 19, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

"How wonderful," Hannibal breathes as he examines the body. 

"I know, right?" Jim says, excited. "No telling how long she's been dead, at least not until we get a lot of lab work done, but _look at her._ "

Hannibal can't take his eyes off her. While their Jane Doe has been thoroughly dirtied and coated in a thin and smeared layer of microbial slime, she is entirely intact in a way that is unlike any corpse Hannibal has ever seen. Even the saponified museum specimens he's observed have suffered more damage. Other than a general puffiness, and the rounded retraction of eyelids and lips, her face is clear and unblemished. Beyond a few small areas of abrasion damage and of course her wounds, the body is entirely preserved. In places, her veins are still visible through waxy flesh. 

And waxy is the word, the skin as smooth and firm to the touch as a candle. There are impressions, indentations in the otherwise perfect flesh in the shape of the netted strands of chicken wire, as Beverly had commented upon. The color of the skin is preserved in places, like deep tea stains on an ivory linen cloth. Remarkable. 

"Some of her prints are still perfect," Jim marvels. "I had to get a little creative, since the skin wouldn't depress for a normal imprint, but we'll see if AFIS turns up anything. Hopefully she's in the system." 

"Okay, okay," Brian says, waving at them to get out of his way. He had disappeared in search of coffee once they had their reptilian cadaver stored away, allowing Hannibal a bit of time to freshen up before gloving up to examine the body. The temporary emergency morgue trailer does not allow much room for multiple doctors to attend the patient at once. 

"Jim did the initial photo documentation on site," Beverly says. "And I did some follow up here in the lights, and a comb-through on what's left of her hair and clothes."

The body is stripped and her wounds documented, a neat laceration to the throat with a sharp knife, a vertical slice to the abdomen through which fat, now turned to grave soap, is visible even before Brian makes his first incision. 

"Deliberate mutilation on her legs, do you think?" Brian asks, waving him over. "It looks too neat to be animals. Bev, pass me that 10x?" 

"Oh, that is certainly a cut," Hannibal says when he bends to inspect the wound. "Connective tissue severed rather neatly with a sharp knife, I think." Tidy as slicing a steak. 

"Yeah, I can see the cross cut on the fibers. Not much tearing at all." Brian takes a few photos. "I'll do some slides. Jesus, the structural preservation is incredible. Like working on a mummy, but without the desiccation." 

The removal of the gastrocnemius from the back of the leg has Hannibal's mind whirring. It isn't until they flip her, though, and he sees the psoas major cut free from along the spine that he finds himself, uncharacteristically, with the urge to sit down and process what he's just seen. 

"You okay doc?" Beverly asks when he covers his mouth and steps back. 

"A bit tired," he says, trying desperately to hide the smile he can't prevent. He gives up on that after a moment and turns the smile on her instead, as if she is the cause. "Thank you for asking."

"Got her!" Jim calls. He returns to the trailer with a printout in hand, reading as he goes. "Della Mouton, picked up a couple times for shoplifting, declared missing…" He trails off and looks at the body, then around at the rest of them. "Declared missing 2006."

"Whoa," Brian says. He sets down his tools, interrupting the thoracic abdominal incision at the xiphoid process. 

"I need her personal history," Hannibal says, pushing authority and assurance into his voice until it rings. "I need to know everything about this woman." 

*

He returns to the inn before the autopsy is finished. He can examine her internal organs and the contents of her brain case at his leisure, when the others are done. He is curious to know what the condition of the fatty nervous tissue may be, but once Brian confirmed a lack of vaginal or anal tearing, Hannibal had all the information he felt he needed. 

The lights are off when he approaches the room, just a few hours before dawn. The door unlocks easily with his back-up keycard, and when the lights go up the room is exactly as he left it save for the neatly made bed and the faint scent of fresh linens washed in cheap soap. His small garbage can has been emptied. 

He closes his eyes and scents the air more carefully, then moves to the bathroom to confirm his deduction. There are no foreign smells in the room, not blood or river water or Will, and the bathtub and shower curtain are dry. 

Will has not been here tonight, to borrow his shower or otherwise. 

He had entertained the notion that Will might wait for him, here, either for conversation or another attempted seduction. It is probably best that he did not, as Hannibal is not entirely sure what he might have done in response. Will's behavior has been extremely difficult to predict, and Hannibal is finding his own reactions increasingly unpredictable as well. 

It is as thrilling as it is dangerous. 

Hannibal needs rest, for now, so he puts such thoughts as far from his mind as he can. He'll likely need to be on his toes, tomorrow. 

*

When Hannibal joins Jack in their makeshift war room, Dr. Jenkins is sipping some kind of bright green smoothie while Troopers Skip and Ronnie hunch over foam cups. Hank arrives so soon on Hannibal's heels that he's able to hold the door open for the other man, who looks a bit harried. 

"Sorry," he says, "Meant to be here earlier but my ride didn't show." He accepts a cup of coffee gratefully and slumps onto one of the folding chairs around their plastic conference table. 

"Well, you've beat my lab team here," Jack says. 

Hank makes a noise into his coffee. "Heard y'all were up late?" 

"A bit," Hannibal admits, earning a quick grin from Dr. Jenkins. "Our fault, I'm afraid. My search team didn't make it back to town until after midnight." 

"You tell 'em why, yet?" Hank asks, amused. 

"I thought I might let Agent Zeller tell the story." 

"Why, what happened?" Ronnie asks, leaning forward. 

"I think I'm going to have to ban you from field work," Jack says, but it's clearly a joke from his tone. "If you can't learn to keep out of trouble." 

"Brian wants hazard pay," Hannibal tells him, shifting the conversation away from his own involvement. 

"But what happened?" Ronnie asks again. He looks to his partner, who signals his innocence with raised eyebrows and a pursed mouth. "We found that…" he makes a face. "Jimmy kept saying 'grave soap.' And I know the Wildlife team found at least one more, right? Before we went off shift." 

Hannibal hears the back door to to their stockroom-cum-laboratory open and takes the few steps to hold the door for Beverly, Jim and Brian as they enter en masse, looking sleepy but pleased with themselves. 

Hank looks disgruntled at their appearance, and frowns down at his cell phone, texting away furiously at someone. Jim makes a beeline for the coffee pot that has appeared in the corner since yesterday, where he immediately dumps what's left in the carafe and begins to start a fresh pot.

When Beverly moves toward the table, Skip pops up to his feet and pulls out the chair next to his own. She pretends not to notice and slips into a seat on the other side of the table, while Brian plops into the offered chair and gives the trooper a friendly grin with only a touch of an edge. "Hey, thanks man." 

Hannibal hides his smile as he takes the seat beside Beverly. "So cruel to your admirer," he murmurs. 

"He's trying to charm me," Beverly complains. 

"One might argue that I frequently try to charm you." 

"No," she says, smiling slightly. "You're just _charming_. There's a difference between you holding the door and him pulling out my chair." 

"And the difference?" Hannibal asks. 

"Well, you'd have actually pulled a chair out for Brian, for a start." She kicks him lightly under the table. "And you're not trying to fuck me." 

"Are you sure?"

"Very," Beverly shoots back, out of the side of her mouth. "Speaking of, where's your Captain Allnut?"

A reference he understands, for once, though he hasn't seen The African Queen since he was barely more than a boy. "He's hardly Bogart." 

"I like his little shorts. I keep missing his impressive performances of stupid manliness, though. That's not fair. That whole show last night was wasted on Brian."

"I suspect Brian feels he had enough excitement." 

"Oh my god, he would not shut up all night," Beverly complains, grinning. "The boy almost gets eaten by one giant reptile…" 

The bell above the door, remnant from when the building was a retail shop, jangles discordantly as Will enters in what appear to be yesterday's clothes, freshly laundered. He holds the door for Dan, who hurriedly makes his way to the open chair beside Hank without making eye contact with anyone, looking for all the world like a child slipping in to class after the bell. 

Will, by contrast, looks rested and relaxed. He pauses to stretch before taking a seat at the the foot of the table, where he sits with his knees comfortably spread. 

"Just in time," Jim says. Armed now with a pair of coffees, he moves to stand next to Jack. "You wanna start, or-" 

Jack waves his free hand even as he accepts a fresh cup from Jim. "Tell us what you've got, and I'll tell you what's next." 

"Perfect. Okay, we had four new bodies recovered last night in...various condition. Three women and one man. Chuttie Gauthreaux is our first confirmed white female, recovered at the northern edge of the Attakapas Wildlife Management Area. Partial remains, half-way to skeletonized, a lot like Yvonne Ventress. Her sister reported her missing four months ago." 

"Four months... that's a lot to still be floating," Jack says. 

"Oh, we didn't find her floating," Beverly corrects. "She'd washed up into th woods a bit. We had to do some very muddy hiking." 

"And she may not have been dead the whole time," Brian adds. "Her arm was broken while she was alive - it had at least a few days to heal before she died." 

There's a murmur of general unhappiness through the room. "That's new, isn't it?" Will asks. "None of the others had signs of extended abuse?" 

"They weren't in great shape to figure that out," Beverly says. "We had extensive bruising on Victoria Allain, though, and repeated or severely aggravated sexual assault." 

"This is so horrible," Dr. Jenkins says quietly. Hannibal isn't sure any of the others hear her. 

"She was kept alive somewhere," Will says, frowning. "Well, that's a data point. They'd need a place to keep them where no one would see or hear anything suspicious." 

"You keep saying 'they,'" Ronnie points out. "You're the only one who thinks there's multiple killers. 

"It's certainly a strong possibility," Hannibal says, and Will glances Hannibal's way for the first time since he entered the room. 

"We'll talk about the who and why once we have the what and how," Jack says, keeping them on track. "Next up." 

"Our second body was Wanda Bercegeay," Jim taps her picture on their board. "She went missing only four weeks before the FBI became involved in the case. You've all got a file on her already since it was her disappearance that brought this case to our attention." He taps the wall. "Strangled. Sexually assaulted. No particular signs of long term captivity, though she was still bound at the wrists when we pulled her out of the water." 

"Yellow nylon rope, half inch," Beverly adds. "Consistent with the wounds on Victoria Allain. Also, incredibly cheap and common. Every big box hardware store in the area sells it, and a lot of the little ones, too. We're not going to find anybody that way." 

"Damn," Jack mutters. He gets up to refill his coffee, which he has already drained. 

Hannibal watches him cross behind the row of investigators sharing the far side of the table. Everyone is watching Jim or focused on their own coffee or notes, but Dan keeps assaying timid glances in Will's direction, as if he feels the need to check where the other man is in relation to himself at all times. Hannibal clicks the cheap pen that was provided at his seat and turns to focus on the forensics team. 

"Body three is still unidentified," Brian confesses. "There wasn't much to work with by the time we got there, and body four had us pretty occupied last night so I haven't even gotten to whatever's inside the alligator-"

"Wait, what?" Dr. Jenkins asks, sitting forward. 

"Seconded," Skip says, raising a hand. "Back up. What alligator?" 

"The one in my freezer right now," Brian says, sounding a little proud. "We recovered human remains from scavengers yesterday. Isn't that what you guys did?" 

Will chuckles, then seems to try to hide it by wiping his hand over his mouth. "I'll help you gut it. You'll ruin the hide, otherwise." 

"We can't take the extra time-" 

"Forty-five minutes, tops," Will insists. "Tip to tail, and I'll share the meat. There's no point wasting it." 

"That's disgusting," Brian complains. "It ate somebody!" 

"Makes it fair," Will argues. Brian just makes a face. 

"What do we know?" Jack interrupts. "We don't have a name, but what can we tell about the deceased." 

"Uh, black male, mid twenties, slim build probably," Brian looks over at Jim, who seems to know his thought and finishes his sentence. 

"And we have a tattoo," Jim says. "Checking it against missing persons. That's probably our best bet on an ID, but it hasn't turned up on the local searches yet. We'll need to expand the area." 

"What is the tattoo?" Hannibal asks, in case it is relevant. 

"Little bird," Jim says. He holds up his thumb and forefinger a bit more than an inch apart. "Just over the ball of the ankle - hell of a painful spot for it. It's just the silhouette, a dove maybe, in rainbow stripes." 

There's a click as Will sets his pen down. "Huh," he says. 

"On a guy?" Ronnie asks, sounding incredulous. "A black dude? That sounds gay as hell." 

"Probably," Jim agrees. "You have something, Graham?" 

Will glances at Dan, then at Hannibal, and finally back to the front of the room. "Just a thought. It's still percolating. Get back to me." 

"Okay. Which brings us to our star of the evening. Bev, you wanna?"

"Sure," she says, and leans back from the table, holding her notes in her hand. "So, Della Mouton, neé Bushnell, thirty years old, missing in August 2005." 

"What, during Katrina?" Ronnie asks. 

"Two weeks before," Beverly corrects. "Reported missing by her boss at the Sonic in Kaplan when she didn't show up for three shifts in a row and couldn't be reached by phone. Here's the thing, though - once we got looking, there are three other women or girls missing from Kaplan, Abbeville or south Lafayette in the two years prior to her disappearance, including Della's half sister, who disappeared about ten months prior, age fourteen." 

Jack whistles. "We could be looking at our pattern crime," he says hopefully. "Does Della fit our victim profile?" 

"Poor, black - well, in Della's case, mixed - young, some prior small legal problems. Shoplifting, mostly." 

"So, who has a personal connection to Della and her sister?" 

Beverly's mouth twists smugly and she leans forward, dropping her notes and resting her elbows on the table. "Husband Fred Mouton, one count statutory, two exposing himself in public, two pickups for assault that got pled down or dropped, and _multiple_ domestic violence call outs, but surprise surprise, all dismissed at the scene when Della told the police everything was fine and she wasn't going to press charges." 

"So, why haven't you had me request a warrant, yet?" Jack asks. "We need to pick this guy up. Talk to him. Search the house." 

"We can search the house," Brian says. "It's empty. Fred took off around the same time as Della. Police eventually found his car parked near the Baton Rouge airport. 

"So, we find him," Jack says, with the tone of an order. "We set the dogs out, and we find this bastard, and we find out where he put these girls. This is the best lead we have so far." 

That's easier said than done, though. By late afternoon Jack is so furious Hannibal mildly concerned about his blood pressure. 

Watching Will and Hank strip and butcher the alligator carcass had been an interesting diversion. Will had inserted a hose from a portable air compressor and inflated the creature like a macabre balloon, which made skinning it entire into quick work. The alimentary canal, removed en bloc and presented to Brian somewhat smugly, has in turn been dissected and additional human tissue extracted. 

"We're 'waiting our turn,' at the New Orleans field lab." Jack tells the group. "I have been told by Agent Wilson that Della Mouton's murder is a low priority as a six year old probable domestic homicide with no known connection to any active cases." 

"You're joking," Jim says, flatly. He is as angry as Hannibal has ever seen him, eyes narrowed and hard. "That son of a bitch." 

"Good thing I anticipated him being a son of a bitch and sent duplicate samples to Quantico by overnight courier," Brian says without looking up from whatever gut contents he is currently cataloging. 

"State Troopers are with y'all, that this is our same killer," Skip says when Jack breaks the news. "Our lab in Baton Rouge is open for whatever you need. I talked to the deputy superintendent myself this morning and made sure he knows y'all have full confidence, as far as me and Ronnie are concerned." 

"If you want to run duplicates, we wouldn't mind the backup," Jack says. "We should be hearing back any time on some of it. Jim wanted a particular test-" 

"Mass spectrometry," Jim jumps in. "Tackling this molecularly. Conditions for saponification are pretty specific, and we'll be able to get clues from the lab results about the burial or dumping conditions. Temperature, pH, oxygen levels," He nods to Dr. Jenkins. "Which we can compare with survey data for a list of possible locations for initial disposal." 

Dr. Jenkins nods. "And hopefully we can narrow it down further based on the river flow and the flood projections." 

"Wonderful," Hannibal says. He opens his mouth to ask a follow up question, but Will appears at his side, wiping his freshly washed hands dry on a bandana. 

"Can I talk to you?" Will asks. 

Jim wiggles his eyebrows and catches Dr. Jenkins by the sleeve. "Let me ask you about this salinity table... How current is it?" He asks as he pulls her gently away. 

"Apparently I'm all yours," Hannibal tells him. 

"Tease. I just...wondered if you wanted your key back." 

"No longer in need of a shower to borrow?" Hannibal asks. 

Will runs his hand through his hair, curls springing back into place as soon as his fingers pass through them. "I got the feeling you didn't actually want me there," he says quietly, tilting his head slightly. "Or am I wrong? I could keep the key. Come by later." 

"I'm afraid I will be rather late, again," Hannibal tells him. "There's such a lot to do." 

Will looks frustrated, turning his face away from Hannibal for a moment as if he's attempting to hide it. "Sure, whatever." He pulls the keycard out of his pocket and holds it up for Hannibal to take. "I guess I oughtta head home and check on the dogs, anyway. And get some rest. Since I didn't get much sleep last night." He takes a step back and stretches, one arm straight up and the other bent at the elbow, extending his back in a slight arc that makes his shirt ride up as he turns away. He looks back at Hannibal over his shoulder, at the door. "If you change your mind about wanting company, though, just let me know." 

A few minutes after he leaves the building, Hannibal follows on foot. The town is small enough that he reaches the marina before Will's boat disappears around the curve of the bayou, headed toward his little island of dogs. 

He'll have the rest of the evening and the entire night to work, then. 

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Some notes on saponification on my tumblr.](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/170637391966/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv) All images will be links rather than inline photos, so you can read about the science without seeing pictures of dead people if you prefer.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A spare key in the glovebox saves Hannibal the trouble of hot-wiring the vehicle, which makes everything that much neater. Standard nitrile gloves keep his prints off the steering wheel and gear shift, but he needn't be too careful. Everyone knows that he has been inside this truck, so a stray hair or fiber won't raise any alarms. It's perfect, really._
> 
> _He drives the truck to Will's shop, where the spare keys and a bit of dog bribery get him through the door. The big mastiff mutt who seems to live here full time follows Hannibal around the shop hopefully, occasionally making little chuffing noises and doe-eyes aimed at Hannibal's pocket. Hannibal pats him absently while flipping through papers and poking through Will's workspace._
> 
>  
> 
> Or, Hannibal finally gets into Will's pants.

**Thursday, May 19, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

Once Will's little craft is out of sight, headed into the flooded swamp surrounding his home, Hannibal approaches the man's beat up green truck. There is no one around, so he reaches through a narrow gap in the driver's window to unlock the door, then slips inside. 

A spare key in the glovebox saves Hannibal the trouble of hot-wiring the vehicle, which makes everything that much neater. Standard nitrile gloves keep his prints off the steering wheel and gear shift, but he needn't be too careful. Everyone knows that he has been inside this truck, so a stray hair or fiber won't raise any alarms. It's perfect, really. 

He drives the truck to Will's shop, where the spare keys and a bit of dog bribery get him through the door. The big mastiff mutt who seems to live here full time follows Hannibal around the shop hopefully, occasionally making little chuffing noises and doe-eyes aimed at Hannibal's pocket. Hannibal pats him absently while flipping through papers and poking through Will's workspace. 

The small back room hosts a cheap, worn out sofa and a small fridge with a microwave on top. There are also a surprising number and variety of books. And, in the space between this little recreational area and the restroom, Hannibal finds what he is looking for - a set of clear plastic storage drawers containing a few sets of clothes. 

Hannibal's protective plastic suit might have drawn comment at some point in his travel - at the TSA checkpoint, or if his companions had a reason to look inside his luggage. Will might have found it while alone in Hannibal's hotel room, or it could have been stumbled on by housekeeping, or the New Orleans police. It was smarter not to bring it. He dresses himself in Will's worn clothes as a decent makeshift alternative, and lifts a pair of disposable shoe covers intended to keep machine oil from wandering where it shouldn't, for later use. 

After making a note of the amount of gas in the tank, Hannibal begins the long drive toward New Orleans. 

With highways near Morgan City impassable due to the flood, Hannibal takes the long way around, to be safe, even though it adds an extra hour to the trip. If the route takes him past quite a few more traffic cameras than the rural southern route, well, that's why Hannibal borrowed a baseball cap from Will's back room. 

Evening comes later here than in Baltimore, so it is only just full dark when Hannibal enters the city. He navigates the streets from memory, having left his cellular telephone safe in his hotel where it cannot betray his travels. Working with the FBI has been very instructive; moving and acting undetected in the modern world has required some refinement of skills, and a different way of thinking about stealth than in his youth. Beverly in particular has been extremely helpful for his education, always happy to lend her assistance to a poor old man befuddled by technology. A bit of companionable teasing has been a small price to pay for her expertise. 

It is early yet when he reaches the high-dollar lakeside neighborhood that is his target - barely past nine. In this city of leisurely dinners and midnight coffee, there will be too many people still on the streets. Agent Wilson's complaints about a recent ex-wife suggest he will be alone for the evening, but Will's battered truck is out of place in this neighborhood and might draw attention before Hannibal wants it drawn. 

So, he waits, car dark and silent in a city park, until the street traffic slows to a trickle, and then beyond. He takes the time to close his eyes and picture again the death of Della Mouton, throat neatly slit and gut opened for scavenger fishes. Where does she fit into his mental picture? Six years past, now, butchered and buried, weighted and sunk into lake or river mud in a cage of wire meant to hold her bones until the last of her had faded away. Her killer had known what he was doing. If not for the flood and the betrayal of the soil and water itself, her body would never have been found. 

How many others are down there, waiting in the depths? And will Hannibal get to see them? 

He opens his eyes at midnight and drives the few blocks to Wilson's house. The lights are all off save for a dim lamp in the foyer and a bright glow from one of the rooms upstairs. Wilson's car is in the drive. 

There doesn't seem to be an alarm - no stickers or signs, no control panel visible in the entry. He circles around to the back patio, pleased to find a set of French doors, which avoids the issue of the deadbolt lock on the front door. He examines the doors, hoping the old-fashioned building comes with an old fashioned lock - and he is correct. But he needn't have concerned himself, as the door turns out not to be locked at all. 

"So careless," he says to himself, amused, and lets himself inside. 

The house is silent. Hannibal paces through the lower rooms, making sure they are empty, before carefully climbing the stairs. They creak more than he would like, so he takes them very slowly, testing his weight gingerly before committing each step, and keeping close to the wall. He keeps his footfalls deliberately out of rhythm, to disguise the source of any noises, and paces himself instead by the occasional rustle of the lake breeze through the magnolia tree in the back garden. 

He hears no stirring from the lit room, so he checks the others first, just in case. A guest bedroom, a hall bathroom, a large storage closet packed with boxes and loose junk. 

Perfect. He and his host are truly alone, then. He stands in the hallway and listens as he ponders his approach - Wilson is the sort of man likely to keep a gun at his bedside. If he is sleeping and has merely left the lamp on, stealth is most appropriate, but if the man is awake, Hannibal will need to move quickly. 

A third approach, then. Hannibal reaches out with one finger extended and tips a tacky vase onto the floor to shatter, before stepping backward into the open bathroom door. 

He waits, head cocked to better triangulate on small sounds. The lack of stirring in the bedroom makes him frown. After several minutes he decides Wilson will not be coming to investigate the sound. He is clearly either a very deep, or intoxicated, sleeper - or not at home. 

Hannibal opens the door to an empty bedroom lit by a reading lamp. He checks the bath and closet, just to be sure, and then returns to look around the room. 

Wilson's car is outside. It is late on a Thursday - even a very relaxed dinner and copious drinks would be well done by now. Wilson was in his office earlier today arguing with Jack, so he is not traveling. 

The bed is rumpled and looks slept in, while the rest of the house has the pristine look of professional housekeeping. The top blankets have spilled partially onto the floor. 

Something is amiss, here. 

Hannibal leaves quickly. He circles the neighborhood once, then parks at the far end of Wilson's street, where he sits in the dark and observes for some time. Nothing of interest happens. 

Hannibal drives back to Bigarno, feeling a bit like someone has whisked away his dinner plate before he was quite through with it.

He changes clothes again in Will's office and returns his truck, gas tank refilled, tires nestled into the same divots in the marina's gravel lot. And then he goes to get some sleep. 

 

**Friday, May 20, 2011 - Vermillion Parish, Louisiana, Kaplan**

"So, what?" Jim asks as they stomp through knee high grass toward the front porch of the derelict Mouton house. "The owners vanish and the house just sits empty for six years? Nobody foreclosed on it? Came after the property taxes? 

"The property belongs to Fred Mouton's mother," Jack tells them, gesturing at the farmland around them. "We have her permission to be as thorough as we like in our search." 

"Does she think this is a missing person's case, or does she know he's our best suspect for at least seven homicides?" Jim asks. He loses his footing somehow in the tall grass and stumbles, so Hannibal reaches out to steady him by the arm. 

"She knows he's a suspect in Della's murder," Jack says, which suggests she does not know about the connected cases. "She didn't seem surprised by the news." 

"Wonderful," Jim mutters. He jogs up the concrete steps to peer into a broken and dusty window. "You know there's not going to be much still here, right? Place has been looted." 

The door is barely hanging on one hinge, so Hannibal pushes it open and steps into the small house. It's built in the shotgun style, the house barely more than four meters wide. Hannibal paces the length of it, opening doors as he goes, from the front parlor or living room, through the kitchen to the bedroom and finally the clumsy afterthought of a bathroom. A channel has been smashed through the walls along one side of the house, near the floor, where enterprising vandals have stripped out wiring. 

There is a space and an exposed pipe where a footed bathtub would have stood, likely also stolen for salvage, and a hole in the kitchen floor through which some kind of shrub or bushy tree is striving toward the shattered window. The mattress in the bedroom has been stripped by nesting rodents to nearly bare wood and springs, leaving only bits of tattered cloth and matted synthetic fluff. 

"I hate houses like this," Jack mutters. He's been in a bad mood all morning, and now that spills over as he prods through rubbish in the front room with the toe of his shoe. Hannibal can just see him down the line of open doorways between them. He wonders what sort of house Jack grew up in. Something to ask at another time. 

"What, falling apart?" Jim asks. 

"That, too." Jack crouches, examining the debris he's overturned. "This was a wasted trip. I've got beer bottles full of cigarette butts, couple condoms."

"Ah, teenagers," Jim sighs. "Little crime scene ruiners. Well, it was worth a try. Let me check the mailbox, see if there's anything left in there, and then we can bust out the luminol just in case." 

Hannibal checks the wooden dresser and wardrobe, finding little more than moth and mouse-chewed rags. The dust is beginning to irritate his sinuses, so he pulls out his handkerchief and holds it over his mouth as he searches. 

Behind several long dresses, tucked on a shelf beside a collection of women's footwear, he finds a shoebox with something inside it that is not a pair of shoes. He sets it on the dresser and removes the top with gloved hands. Inside he finds a number of keepsakes - a christmas angel made of wooden beads, a small jewelry box that plays a few weak, plinking notes when he opens it. The rings and necklaces inside are cheap and childish. 

"What have you got?" Jack asks, drawn by the odd noise. Hannibal waits for him to join him before opening the yellowed envelope that had been tucked under the trinkets. 

"Photographs," Hannibal says, unnecessarily. He hands them to Jack, feeling the urge to wash his hands despite the gloves. What very ugly things they are, and so poorly, amateurishly shot. "I'll collect Jim, shall I?" 

"Go ahead and call the whole team out," Jack says, as he shuffles through the polaroids, face tight. 

The bed in the pictures is clearly the one in the room. Now that he's looking for it, Hannibal can see the notches worn by the handcuffs. He recognizes Fred Mouton in most of the pictures, but Della is entirely absent. There are six different women - girls, really, which they will need to compare against missing persons. The only one Hannibal recognizes is Della's missing sister. 

Beverly turns out to be unavailable - a family out fishing in the early morning had stumbled on part of another man's body in the water, which she had gone out with the Wildlife agents to retrieve. Brian is the one who thinks to have the yard and nearby fields mowed down. He turns out to be quite adept at searching out the slight depressions left by grave subsidence, where soil has shifted as the body within decayed to bones or less. 

"Yeah, Jesus, look at all the weeds," he tells Hannibal, pointing out dark patches in the mown grass. "Primo fertilizer. I'd, uh, check under the kitchen floor, too. That bush looks really happy." 

"That thing in Kentucky," Jim says, mysteriously. 

"Don't remind me," Brian grouses. 

"We should get Graham and his cadaver dog out here," Jim continues blithely. 

"What, so you can play keepaway?" Brian asks him. Jim makes a face at him. 

Hannibal finds Jack at their car, coordinating with the troopers who are helping with the scene. He has his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder, but seems to be ignoring whatever is on the other end in favor of the current situation - possibly on hold. 

He hangs up when Hannibal approaches. After a few quick orders, he waves away the young trooper he'd been speaking to and, when he and Hannibal are relatively alone, leans back against the car door. "Every break in this case just leads to more mess." 

"We have a name and a face," Hannibal tells him. "Fingerprints in the system. We'll find him, Jack." 

"Bella has a chemotherapy appointment this afternoon," Jack closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. "I should be holding her hand." 

"No one would judge you if you took a few personal days," Hannibal assures him. 

"No, we're too close," Jack mutters. "We're so close to blowing this one open." 

They aren't close at all. They have no idea. 

No one else has even thought to ask who was holding that camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I didn't think y'all had enough mysteries yet so I gave y'all a few more. Sorry for the lack of Will - he's busy at the moment. 
> 
> If I don't see you again before Tuesday, Happy Mardi Gras! I'll be putting up a post on tumblr sometime before then about the holiday, and some sincerely funky related traditions.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"And then Killer B," Jim says when Beverly puts her notepad down and it looks like Will is done. Will nods and pushes two blue pins into the map, one in Rosedale and one just off the edge of the map, where I-10 runs to the edge of the paper. No third pin until they identify this most recent body._
> 
> _Or so Hannibal assumes, until Will starts pushing more blue pins into the map - one of them all the way in Alexandria, and several in Baton Rouge, along with a scattering in more rural areas._
> 
> _"Oh hell," Jack says._
> 
> Or, Will comes up with a plan of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the long delay on this one. Things have been kind of nuts, though mostly in a good way. My new job is keeping me busy, and I've been packing and looking for a place to move, which actually involved a 16-day road trip across 2800 miles with 10 motels along the way. I'm also sorry this one is short, but I felt like it was important to get back into the swing of things. 
> 
> Shout out to the Bay Area Fannibals, who hosted me for a very chill meat-up last weekend on very little notice while I was passing through :) Y'all are all cool and the mac and cheese was excellent.

**Friday, May 20, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

When Hannibal, Jim and Jack get back to their temporary storefront office, Beverly and Will look fairly cozy. Will has his feet up on an extra folding chair, coffee in one hand and several case jackets stacked in his lap. Beverly seems to have been working at the table more conventionally, but she's leaning over to examine something in Will's file when she looks up to greet them, thoroughly invading the man's personal space. 

"Got our new John Doe in the freezer," Beverly tells them. "You know when Zee's coming back?" 

"Could be late," Jack admits. "He's supervising exhumation at the Mouton house. That's going to be a multi-day project."

"How many graves?" Will asks. 

"Four, so far," Hannibal tells him, and watches a frown twist Will's lips. He takes the chair on Will's other side, diagonal at the table from Beverly. "You two have been busy, it seems?" The table is fairly covered in files and printouts, and Hannibal can smell traces of what he thinks might be more of Will's cooking. 

"Sorting out our missing persons," Beverly says, waving a file at him. "Every data point we get helps narrow down the victim pool." 

"Or expand it," Jack mutters. "Right now we have black women, white women, a black man, two white men. Both sides of our flood zone. That's a pretty wide geographic area." He sits down, shifting his weight back slowly like his back is acting up or he's very tired. "Identification of the new remains might take a while, It's been mostly bones, so far." 

"The area's even wider than you think," Beverly admits. "Hotard and Jackson got us an ID on our boy with the rainbow tattoo. He's from Houston." 

" _Houston_ ," Jim says, incredulous. 

"Living in Houston," Will corrects. "Away at school and living with a cousin, but he's from New Orleans." He taps his pen against the papers on his lap, then looks at Hannibal. "Which means he'd be driving I-10 at least a few times a year - more if he was tight with his family."

"Nathan Burgess stocked vending machines," Beverly reminds them. "All over the area. So, he was on the road a lot. Graham has a theory, so we spent a little time going through reports for _men_ reported missing, looking for…" She glances at Jim, then at Will. 

"Looking for closet cases and guys who might be on the gay party scene," Will finishes for her, not bothering with delicacy. "Who might have a reason to be traveling the I-10 corridor." He sets his files aside and gets up, moving to their map. "Y'all came across the causeway here, right?" he traces the line of the interstate. 

Hannibal nods. The bridge had been perhaps thirty kilometers, end to end, and spanned the entire flood basin from levee to levee. 

"Then Hank and Dan found Burgess here," he taps the spot, where a green pin has been stuck. "Our gator bait..." he taps again, another green pin, then moves his finger to the last green marker. "And now Agent Katz's Doe."

The color coding and the motion of his hand make it clear that the three points make up a curve where the water had pushed the bodies south and west, and each one found further than the last. More time for the water to move them away from their origin. 

Will places his finger on the map, north and west of Burgess's marker, just south of a yellow pin Hannibal realizes must be marking where they found Yvonne Ventress tangled in the tree. "I wasn't sure if Burgess came down the Atchafalaya," he follows that river with his other hand so that they can see it from the table, "or here, from the pilot channel." 

This second path intercepts the first just above the finger Will is using to mark where their backtracking had stopped. Will traces it back up, stopping where it crosses the I-10 bridge across the basin. "There's an exit here. Only one on the main part of the bridge." 

"Whiskey Bay," Jack says, leaning forward in his chair. "I remember. The name jumped out at me." 

"There's basically nothing there," Will tells them. "Private land on one side, couple of camps miles down the road. It's mostly just the public boat launch into the pilot channel. I use it sometimes, especially if a fisherman breaks down in the area. Easier than towing them all the way back to civilization." He doesn't turn back to look at them when he adds, "couple times I've been out there by myself and gotten propositioned." 

"Aaaah," Jim says. "It's a tea room." He rolls his eyes. "Of course it is. It's perfect." 

"What are you talking about?" Jack asks him. 

"It's a gay hook up spot!" Jim explains, and waves a hand at the map. "Look, there's probably not a gay bar anywhere in between Baton Rouge and Lafayette. It's just like a highway rest stop in the middle of nowhere." 

Jack looks utterly baffled and a bit uncomfortable with the whole conversation. He turns to Hannibal as if expecting commiseration, and Hannibal has to hide his smile. "Surely there are more little places like the bar you showed me," he asks Will, and watches out of the corner of his eye as Jack registers that revelation. 

"When did you go to a gay bar?" Jim demands. "I didn't get invited to a gay bar."

"It wasn't a gay bar," Will says, amused. "It's a lesbian-owned biker roadhouse." 

"I didn't get invited to a lesbian-owned biker roadhouse," Beverly complains, grinning. "Sorry Jack. You are so outnumbered right now." 

"I'm realizing that," Jack says dryly, without further comment or eye contact. "Can we get back on topic, please? This is a...a known meeting place. Isolated but near a heavily trafficked area, and with access to the waterway you think the male bodies at least are coming from."

"We have two sets of victims," Will says. "There are women, mostly a certain age range, mostly poor, mostly local, mostly with some kind of criminal history." He starts pushing red pins into the map, starting with a cluster in Maringouin, and spreading outward, naming the women who went missing at those locations as he goes, and continuing on past their confirmed victims as Beverly feeds him names off a list that includes all the probable victims Hannibal himself had picked out from missing persons, plus a literal handful of other red pins scattered across the map. 

"So that's one killer," Jack agrees. "Possibly Frank Mouton." 

Will tilts his head in acknowledgement and starts pushing red pins into Kaplan for Mouton's victims. 

"Two," Beverly corrects. "At least. If Graham is right, and I think he is. Just...jesus, look how many there are. There _has_ to be more than one killer with a shared MO. No one's ever killed that many people this quietly in that span of time." 

Hannibal crosses and uncrosses his legs, making himself comfortable to watch the show unfolding. 

"And then Killer B," Jim says, when Beverly puts her notepad down and it looks like Will is done. Will nods and pushes two blue pins into the map, one in Rosedale and one just off the edge of the map, where I-10 runs to the edge of the paper. No third pin until they identify this most recent body. 

Or so Hannibal assumes, until Will starts pushing more blue pins into the map - one of them all the way in Alexandria, and several in Baton Rouge, along with a scattering in more rural areas. 

"Oh hell," Jack says. 

"Can't confirm these," Will confesses, before stepping back to give them the full view. "It's hard to get a sense of someone's sexuality on paper, and what we're actually looking for is mostly men who have sex with men but don't consider themselves gay or live an openly gay lifestyle. But, we looked for men with tenuous social connections, not a lot of romantic history with women - or if they were married, wives who reported them being emotionally distant or frequently absent. Truckers, guys who moved around a lot, guys who missed a lot of work, guys with flags for some kind of inappropriate sexual behavior in public." 

"So we're either looking for someone killing their sexual partners or someone, what, lurking around under the bridge and murdering gay men like some kind of literal troll?" Jim says, making exactly the same face he had when Hannibal had tried to feed him fois gras.

"We put stickers on the physical files," Beverly says, pushing a stack of them at Jack. "Red for our initial case, blue for the Whiskey Bay guy. Graham's idea," she explains at Jack's questioning look. "There's a lot to keep track of here and ninety-nine cents worth of colored dots actually goes a long way. Green for the men recovered, too, and yellow for the women, just like on the map." 

"I've used something similar for patient files," Hannibal admits. "Color can be a very helpful mnemonic aid. Color coding is excellent for building lasting associations." He shuffles through the files marked with red and yellow and, sure enough, finds Della Mouton exactly where he'd expected. "Quite a clever idea, really." 

"Seemed like the simplest way to keep things straight," Will says, watching him carefully as he shuffles the files back to their original order. "I made jambalaya, by the way. Y'all are probably hungry by now if you didn't stop somewhere on your way back from Kaplan." 

"It was so good," Beverly says. "I know you're picky as heck, Hannibal, but you should try it." 

"Oh, I've had a chance to sample Will's cooking," Hannibal admits. "I enjoyed it a great deal." He looks back to Will. "Am I allowed to ask what's in the jambalaya?" he asks. 

"I'd rather see you try guessing, again." Will says, with some apparent pleasure at the praise. "I doubt you've ever had anything like it." 

"You might be surprised what I've tried," Hannibal says, and lets Will see his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Whiskey Bay is a real place](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/172233703371/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv).
> 
> Bigarno is not, and the R is silent.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I thought maybe cooking for you might help," Will admits. "Food's obviously important to you."_
> 
> _"Help with what?" Hannibal asks. He puts the pot down and picks up the lid, careful not to leave any moisture behind to rust the thick, dark metal._
> 
> _"Oh, you know," Will says offhandedly. He looks away to fiddle with the old paper calendar on the wall, flipping the pages. "'The way to a man's heart is through his stomach,' and all that." The lack of eye contact is curious. Hannibal isn't sure how deliberate or feigned it might be._
> 
> Or, Hannibal appreciates all of Will's hard work.

**Friday, May 20, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

"I can't believe you _cooked_ the damned thing," Brian says, staring down at his bowl in mute horror. "I can't eat this!" 

"It tried to eat you," Will says, with what Hannibal feels is perfect reasonableness. 

"It ate a _person_!" Brian argues. 

"Makes it fair," Hank says. "Here, if you're not gonna finish it, I will." He takes the foam bowl from Brian's limp hands and sits down to kick his feet up against the wall. "That's good tasso, but..." he tells Will, clearly offering a suggestion rather than complaining, his tone friendly and light. "Needs some of that venison sausage like you gave Dan." 

"He told you I made that?" Will asks, amused. 

"Nah, but I ain't as stupid as he thinks I am," he says, grinning in conspiracy before taking a big bite. 

Hannibal picks at his jambalaya. He'd enjoyed the novel experience of the alligator. It isn't often he has the opportunity to eat something that made a genuine effort to eat him first. But he can't help being a bit disappointed. 

"It really does taste like chicken," Jim says, when he wanders over and sees the face Brian is making and his lack of a bowl. 

"I'm not worried about the _taste_ ," Brian mutters. "I'm not gonna eat something that ate a person." 

Hank points a spoon at Brian, but he doesn't speak until he's done chewing. "Spoken like a man who's never been hungry enough to eat roadkill." 

"Amen," Will mutters. 

"Wait you - you know what, nevermind." Brian shakes his head. " _Gross_ , but nevermind." 

"He won't eat seafood anywhere with aquariums you can see from the table," Jim says, amused. 

"Look, I've never eaten an animal that I like...met first. Or whose cousins were watching me eat. That's just super disturbing." 

"Oh, no," Hannibal says, roused from his reflection. "Brian, we can't have that. To be so disconnected from where your food comes from. You're doing yourself a disservice." 

"You wanna do the farm to table thing with vegetables or whatever, sure, fine, okay," Brian says, crossing his arms. "I cut up dead people all day. I live on compartmentalization. I don't wanna meet my meat." 

Jim pokes him in the shoulder. "He went vegetarian for four months after we had this arson case..." 

"Oh my god, don't remind me," Brian says, bending over and covering his face with his hands. "Jesus, the _smell_..." 

Will sits down next to Hannibal and leans close enough that their shoulders briefly brush. Hannibal is entirely conscious of how his own attention shifts in response, and he frowns at the rice on his fork. 

"You don't like the gator?" Will asks, quiet as if Brian and Jim aren't bickering across the table for Hank's entertainment. The low voice invites Hannibal to lean closer, to tune out the others, to disappear with Will into a private space for just the two of them. He really is very good. 

Hannibal makes a show of selecting a bite of meat from the dish, then sampling it carefully. "It's delicious, actually." 

"Not too weird?" Will asks, smiling. His arm brushes Hannibal's again. 

"Not quite like chicken," Hannibal says, analyzing. "A denser texture, longer muscle fiber. A hint of certain ammonia compounds…" He looks at Will, "which is to say, just a bit...fishy." Not nearly fishy enough.

Will's smile isn't pleased. If anything, he looks sad. "You've been hungry enough, haven't you?" 

Ice spikes through Hannibal's veins. "Hungry enough for what?" 

Will shrugs. "To really appreciate good food." He looks at Hannibal speculatively. "Took me a while to see it. Most people don't, do they? They assume you've always worn those Italian shoes." 

"Life is too short for terrible meals," Hannibal says airily, and doesn't answer Will's question. 

"Can I talk to you?" Will asks, leaning even closer, voice even lower. "Not here." 

Trying to get him alone again. "I'll help you clean up," Hannibal says, and gets to his feet. He's curious what tactic Will intends to try now. 

The shop's little kitchen isn't really intended for two. There isn't much to do beyond collecting the garbage and washing the Dutch oven Will had brought the jambalaya in. Will doesn't crowd him the way Hannibal had expected, and once he has the last of the food squared away, he turns to watch Hannibal dry the big iron pot. 

"I thought maybe cooking for you might help," Will admits. "Food's obviously important to you." 

"Help with what?" Hannibal asks. He puts the pot down and picks up the lid, careful not to leave any moisture behind to rust the thick, dark metal. 

"Oh, you know," Will says offhandedly. He looks away to fiddle with the old paper calendar on the wall, flipping the pages. "'The way to a man's heart is through his stomach,' and all that." The lack of eye contact is curious. Hannibal isn't sure how deliberate or feigned it might be. "I slept on the couch, when I stayed over at Dan's." 

"Was the bed not comfortable?" 

"I wouldn't know," Will says. He looks back at Hannibal over his shoulder. "Danny's a sweet kid, but if he were any further in the closet he'd have a lamppost up his ass." He sighs. "It can be hard down here. People can be old fashioned in ugly ways, not just the quaint ones. I don't blame him. But, I'm also not interested in being with somebody who's afraid of himself like that. Ashamed of what he is."

"I can certainly understand that," Hannibal says. He looks away for a moment as he settles the lid onto the Dutch oven, pleased with the fit. It's a well-seasoned old pot, obviously much used and well cared for. 

"Anyway," Will says, from much closer than he'd been a moment ago. His sleeve brushes against Hannibal's own, and his eyes are dark and serious when Hannibal meets them. "I was mostly trying to make you jealous." 

In the other room, he can hear the others moving about, the sounds of their voices, and the bell above the door. "Why would I be concerned about where you sleep?"

Will's eyes flash and his lips twist. He knocks his shoulder against Hannibal's and then steps back, turning half-away. "God, you're so frustrating." He looks back, his eyes hard with challenge. The expression is appealing. "You really want me to pretend you haven't been watching me since that first night like you want to eat me alive?" 

"Perhaps I'm just hungry," Hannibal says. He watches the way Will runs his hand through those wild curls, feeling pleased with himself. 

Will leans against the far wall for a moment, then rebounds toward Hannibal, reaching out. Hannibal's mind races as he tries to calculate Will's intentions, whether this will be an attack or an embrace, and how Hannibal himself should react. 

Instead, Will reaches past him and picks up the ziplock bag holding the leftover jambalaya. "Well," he says, and presses it to Hannibal's chest until he takes it. "I can do something about that at least." He steps away, headed for the silent front room and, inevitably, the door. "It's better the second day, anyway." 

Hannibal smiles to himself and listens to his footsteps retreat, and then the jingle of the door. 

With their war room to himself, Hannibal has the freedom to arrange things as he sees fit. He pulls aside Della Mouton's file, and her husband's, and he sets her sister's beside them along with the other missing girls from Kaplan. 

He'd looked through the new files Will and Beverly had pulled, as they all went over the information together, so he has a starting point. There's other information that he needs, though, if he's going to find the patterns. He fires up one of their laptops and sits down with the files, searching and sorting, reviewing police jackets, news reports, obituaries, the sex offender registry. When he's done, he has four piles. 

There are the women whose murders and disappearances they came here to solve - the same list of probable victims he'd put together before leaving New Orleans, plus a few of the new possibles that fit the profile he's been keeping to himself. 

And, of course, a stack for Nathan Burgess and the other men like him. Their second victim pool. Will must have been so _pleased_ when he put together those connections. Hannibal doesn't doubt for a moment that Will is correct in the basics, but it truly is marvelously convenient. These men, isolated from each other, spread across three states, selected on the basis of criteria that may be difficult or even impossible to prove. 

The third stack is irrelevant, except as it informs the last. The Kaplan girls, and others like them. Some noise, as well, introduced into the patterns by Beverly and Will's imperfect profile of their first set of killers. He suspects Will would have seen what Hannibal has found, if he weren't so terribly distracted. 

There's irony in that. After all, Will has been trying his best to distract Hannibal ever since he caught Hannibal staring at his bruised and bloodied skin and thought he'd guessed the reason why. 

Hannibal stands and collects the last of the files and takes them with him over to the map. Will's colorful system is perfect. It divides the victims up into two pools so very clearly. Red pins for missing persons connected to their first case, blue for the killer hunting Whiskey Bay. The colors reinforce the gender line; so few serial killers ever cross that line that it must seem intuitive to the others. Of _course_ Will is entirely correct. 

Hannibal starts pulling out pins. 

Lena Bernard in Crowley, with one DUI and several home visits by Child Protective Services. Her disappearance in 2009 took place three months after the drowning of her six year old son was ruled an accident. 

There was a missing girl in Alexandria in 2007 whose address is on the same street as Jason McNeese, missing 2008. A bit of googling had turned up her obituary, which lists her extracurriculars at a high school ten minutes past McNeese's address if she'd been on foot, which she probably had been. News articles related to the school also turned up another girl who had been found stabbed and raped in the woods behind the football field the same year. 

It goes on like that, one by one, until Hannibal has removed seventeen brightly colored pins from the board and replaced them with plain, unassuming white. He stands back and looks, admiring their work. 

What a _very_ clever boy. 

Once he's looked his fill, Hannibal replaces the pins, shuffles the files back into Will's handy, color-coded order, and clears the traces of his searches from the computer. Then he shuts the machine down, collects his things, and turns out the lights before locking the door behind him. 

He hums a bit of _Salome_ on the walk back to the motel. The damp and heavy air is hardly changed in temperature, even with the sun down, but Hannibal finds he hardly minds.

Perhaps he's finally acclimating to the heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We haven't had a recipe in a while! I've been slacking
> 
> [Will's jambalaya is here](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/172669456886/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)
> 
> [check out all the bonus posts for this story here](http://iesika.tumblr.com/tagged/what-the-water-gave-me)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"That's what I thought," she says with a shrug. "He keeps to himself, but he's friendly. I asked Dan and Hank about him the other day and they think he's about as law abiding as hunters and trappers get down here. He shows up at town meetings and argues with people about bird conservation and native hunting rights. He's engaged in his community." She shoots Hannibal a look. "Busts up the middle age white loner profile enough Jack stopped being worried."_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Of course. It wouldn't do to appear isolated. Town meetings instead of charity galas, but the function is served. "Did you step out with Brian and Jim tonight, or your handsome and chivalrous admirer?" He ask her, turning the tables._
> 
> _"Neither," She says, and leaves it at that, which makes Hannibal smile. "Don't change the subject."_
> 
> Or, Will is much better at knowing when he's in trouble than Hannibal is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been gone so long! I moved, but I'm mostly settled now, and my job is no longer on mandatory overtime. I finally found myself a diner with wifi today, which is my preferred writing habitat, and I think I'm back on track for regular updates for the near future. :) Thank you for your patience!

**Friday, May 20, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

When Hannibal approaches the Cypress Inn, someone is sitting in a rocking chair near the closed-up office, entirely in the dark. He smells cheap beer and Beverly's apricot shampoo before he is close enough to see her face; she has been exerting herself, and the heat and sweat carry the scent.

She's also picked up the stink of stale cigarette, and an unfamiliar perfume or hand lotion, and she's wearing the red skirt Hannibal hasn't seen on her since the aftermath of her bar crawl in New Orleans. The number of empty beer bottles lined up against the wall suggest that either she is very drunk, or she was not the only one drinking here tonight.

"You were out late, young man," she says, rocking comfortably and pointing at him with the hand that holds her current bottle. "What have you been up to?"

"So kind of you to wait up," Hannibal says. He considers pleading fatigue, but he's mildly curious about Beverly's very good mood and relaxed posture. "It's comforting to know you're concerned about my welfare," he adds, and settles into the empty rocker beside her.

"Not nearly as concerned as Jack," she says, smiling against the rim of her bottle. "You know he had a dossier made up on your new boyfriend?"

Hannibal is not surprised. Jack isn't a stupid man. "There isn't actually anything going on between us," he says, because Will clearly wants the team to believe otherwise. He's still not sure what the other man's intentions are, beyond keeping Hannibal off guard and off balance, but thwarting the man seems like the safe play.

There's only one real problem.

"Uh huh," Beverly says, clearly not believing a word he says. "Too bad. He's clean enough to make even Jack happy." She rocks back as she drains the last drops from her bottle, then stays that way, looking up at the cloudy night sky. "Couple warnings for vagrancy, and a drunk and disorderly that got dismissed. That was all right after he quit the force, though. Sounds like he went through a tough time."

That catches Hannibal's attention. "What do you mean?" He asks, trying not to sound as interested as he is.

"I don't know. Living rough for a while, it sounds like." She rocks forward and plants her elbows on her knees, leaning toward Hannibal. "Fucking sucks to lose a partner like that. I don't blame him for burning out. Then no fixed address for almost a year before he ended up here."

Interesting. "He seems to have made a place for himself."

"That's what I thought," she says with a shrug. "He keeps to himself, but he's friendly. I asked Dan and Hank about him the other day and they think he's about as law abiding as hunters and trappers get down here. He shows up at town meetings and argues with people about bird conservation and native hunting rights. He's engaged in his community." She shoots Hannibal a look. "Busts up the middle age white loner profile enough Jack stopped being worried."

Of course. It wouldn't do to appear isolated. Town meetings instead of charity galas, but the function is served. "Did you step out with Brian and Jim tonight, or your handsome and chivalrous admirer?" He ask her, turning the tables.

"Neither," She says, and leaves it at that, which makes Hannibal smile. "Don't change the subject."

"Ah, I see. You get to harass me about my evening, but not the other way around?"

"Damn right." She gets up to stretch, smiling secretively, and only tilts a little on her impractical shoes.

"Shall I run a background check on Dr. Jenkins for you?" He calls after her, and sits back, pleased, when she presents him with her middle finger without turning back in his direction.

 

**Saturday, May 21, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

Beverly's night must not have been too wild, because she seems entirely put together and professional at the morning briefing.

The forensic dive team should be arriving shortly after breakfast, so all that's left is to decide where to start.

"We should be looking at the camps and woods near Whiskey Bay," Will insists. "We know one of our killers is finding his victims there. We have a good idea of where two of the bodies came from."

"That whole area's still under eight feet of water," Jack argues. "It's not that I don't trust your intuition about the location, but we also know at least one of the men probably killed there was buried before the flood. We'll have better luck finding graves once the water goes down."

"There are only so many bodies of water that are alkaline enough - and deep enough for anaerobic conditions - to end up with rapid saponification like we've seen on Della Mouton's corpse." Jim says, nodding to Dr. Jenkins. "LaShonda and her colleagues did the homework for us, cross-referencing those locations with the recent flood maps-"

"Your elevation charts helped," Dr. Jenkins interrupts. "Obviously they're more accurate closer to your home, but we could make some inferences about soil shifting up stream."

Hannibal is fairly certain he's the only one who notices the slight downward twitch of Will's mouth at that, or perhaps the others simply attribute it to his feeling put out or patronized.

"You've narrowed it down to one location, then?" Hannibal asks, watching Will even as he directs his question to Dr. Jenkins.

"Not exactly, but we have a definite strong contender. There's a pair of small lakes near the Atchafalaya south of Bayou Sorrel - one of a couple waterways called Lake Chicot in the area. Upper Chicot's about as perfect for the conditions Jimmy gave me as anything, and it's in the right area. It doesn't normally have any outlets, but the flood would have pushed water and debris ahead of it, into Lower Chicot and from there to the river."

"That whole area's underwater too," Will argues, but it's weak. His eyes keep darting around the room, as if he's seeking inspiration. "Deeper, even, and it's in the middle of nowhere. Hard to imagine someone going that far to dump a body."

"Sure," Beverly says, "but we already know this guy is into overkill. He wrapped the body up in chicken wire before he weighted and sunk it, so the fish could get at her without any parts becoming visible. And it's a lake. We'd be sending down divers there no matter what. It's a good place to start."

"That's decided, then," Jack says as he balls up the wrappers from his breakfast. Hannibal had eaten leftover jambalaya in his motel room, happy to avoid sheets of rubbery, over-cooked eggs and enough salt to de-ice a driveway. "Get me the coordinates and I'll call ahead to the boat. We can meet them there."

Jack and the others bustle around, clearing up breakfast and working out who will ride with who. Dr. Jenkins goes out to her truck for a pair of calf-high white rubber boots she pulls on over her jeans, and seems surprised that no one else has any.

Hannibal had seen a similar pair under the steering column of Will's boat, but Will is standing silent, eyes on the wall and jaw tight, as if he isn't listening.

"Well, my spares might fit Beverly, but the rest of you are gonna get muddy," Dr. Jenkins warns, seeming pleased with the prospect.

"You think you can handle it, Doc?" Beverly teases.

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this for anything," Hannibal says. Will turns to look at him then.

Their eyes lock for a long moment - long enough for Jack to pat Hannibal on the back and head for the door. Hannibal decides to let a touch of his amusement show, and is rewarded with the pleasure of watching Will's eyes go wide with sudden fear.

It only lasts a moment before Will's face is entirely under control again, but to Hannibal it's as good as a signed confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Bigarno is a made up place. 
> 
> Lake Chicot is not, but there's about six of them (Chicot is a kind of tree, so it's like Will's house being on Bayou Chêne. There are a lot of Bayou Chênes, since Chêne just means "Oak") I have a specific one in mind and eventually I'm going to show y'all some version of my ridiculous map, but right now it's covered in spoilers.
> 
> [There is a spotify playlist for this fic,](https://open.spotify.com/user/jessie.iesika/playlist/2WvnBsdaa54gk64Fja2cif) with music mostly from areas the team has visited or nearby. I'm constantly adding to it.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will is doing a remarkable job of pretending not to notice Hannibal watching him, and of keeping his face pleasant and open. Even his posture is relaxed and easy, which is hard to fake._
> 
> _Will really is very good. It's a shame how soon this game will be coming to an end._  
>  _He'd hoped the two of them could have one _real_ meal together, at least. Hannibal has never shared a proper feast with anyone who knew what they were eating. Discounting the occasional last meal, of course. _
> 
> _If Hannibal were to provide the protein, though, that would rather have given the whole thing away, and Will hasn't seen fit to share anything so intimate, despite his other offers._
> 
> _"Not much to do but wait, then?" Will asks._
> 
> Or, Will finally makes a move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks! Meant to have this up sooner but experienced technical difficulties.

**Saturday, May 21, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

He is invited onto Will's boat. That's usual enough. 

The first deviation from their tentative routine comes when no one else is invited aboard. Will stands on the dock talking to Henry and Dan about some repairs he'd done on Dan's sister's lawnmower, subtly blocking anyone else from approaching his boat, until the rest of the team have arranged themselves between the police, wildlife and dive boats. 

No one else notices - or if they do, perhaps they believe they know the reason Will is trying to keep Hannibal to himself, today. 

Hannibal makes use of his time alone on the boat with Will's back turned to locate the big, curved utility knife - more like a kukri than anything - that Will had used on the alligator the other night. After making doubly sure he's not being observed, Hannibal slips it under the detachable cushion on his usual seat. 

"You go ahead," Will tells Hank, with a magnanimous gesture at the open water. "I gotta gas up." 

He jumps down into the boat and smiles at Hannibal before settling in at the helm and donning his sunglasses and a snap-back cap that crushes his curls into a ragged halo. 

"Hope you don't mind a little detour?" He asks, turning to flash another smile at Hannibal like they don't both know he's cutting Hannibal off from the herd. 

"If you need fuel, by all means," Hannibal agrees. He sits back in his seat and flips through his pocket notebook as if he hasn't memorized all the pertinent details of their cases, making a show of ignoring Will entirely. 

Will pilots them away from the boat slips and downriver, a direction that Hannibal has not so far had the opportunity to explore. It isn't far - ten minutes perhaps - and doesn't take them much outside the limits of the town, if at all. 

Unlike the small floating dock where Will has picked them up for each trip up the bayou, with its scattered small pleasure and fishing boats, this marina also boasts larger, expensive-looking craft housed in covered slips. Will doesn't spare a glance at any of them and heads straight for a pair of fuel pumps underneath a tree festooned with long ropes of styrofoam crab-floats like a giant version of the bead-draped myrtles Hannibal had seen near St. Louis Cathedral. 

A teenage girl in a bathing suit and ragged denim shorts leans against a post between the pumps, under the shade of a sun-faded golf umbrella that springs from a piece of pipe taped to the pump beside her. When their boat approaches, she flicks her cigarette into the water. 

"Heya, Kate," Will calls once they're close enough, earning a squint in return. The boat bumps gently against the old tires strung along the dock, coming to a halt. Kate catches the rope Will throws, which she wraps securely around a cleat on the dock while Will cuts the engine and springs up to stand beside her. 

She takes Will's money without comment, then notices Hannibal sitting with his legs crossed at the knee at the back of the boat. "Who's your friend?" She asks, her apathy vanishing, her posture shifting into a childish attempt at enticement. 

"Special Agent Lecter is with the FBI," Will says as he lifts the pump handle off its hook and connects it with the boat's gas tank. 

"Special Agent, huh?" She asks, and plants her hands on her knees to lean over, affording him a closer view of her chest if he were inclined to take the opportunity. "I'm Katie." 

"A pleasure to meet you, miss," Hannibal says, standing to offer her a slight bow, to her clear delight.

""I'm working with them on something. Police, too." Will tells her. "Which reminds me," he tips his sunglasses down to look at her. "I ain't tryin to be your daddy, Kate, but if I hear one more thing about you being somewhere you shouldn't, when you shouldn't , with someone you shouldn't, doin' something you shouldn't, I _am_ gonna have to call your mama." 

"Oh come on!" Kate protests, abandoning her attempt to capture Hannibal's fancy. 

"There is some bad business going on," Will insists. "I don't give a damn what you do the rest of the time but I don't want to have to pull pieces of you out of this river. Stay home for a while." When she just glares sullenly, he softens his voice and steps a bit closer. "I'm working with them, Kate. I have information you don't have. I just want you to be safe. This isn't about me thinking you can't handle yourself, this is about there being bad fucking people in the world."

"Whatever," she mutters, then turns to acknowledge a new boat as it pulls up on the other side of the long dock. 

"I mean it," Will says as he disconnects the pump hose and returns it to the hook. "Keep the change," he calls when he's done, but Kate doesn't turn around. 

"She didn't offer any," Hannibal can't help saying, once Will has finished up and jumped back into the boat. 

"Eh, I always let her keep the change," Will says, as if the girl's rudeness doesn't bother him at all. "Six bucks isn't going to break me." 

"You seem so frugal, in other ways." Hannibal says, turning the interaction over in his mind. "I'm a bit surprised." 

The look Will gives him is long and, with the sunglasses, unreadable. "Six bucks isn't going to break me," he repeats.

 

**Saturday, May 21, 2011 - Upper St. Martin Parish, Louisiana, near Hog Island**

The divers are only just being deployed when they arrive at Lake Chicot. 

"It's a big area to search," Dr. Jenkins explains when they pull up alongside the larger boat. "We did some quick sonar - we know the body you found was down deep, and anything bigger than a bateaux probably has a fish-finder built in. As much trouble as this guy went to finding a deep lake with no outlet in the middle of nowhere, we're guessing he'd take a few minutes to find the deepest spots."

"I imagine so," Hannibal says. Will is doing a remarkable job of pretending not to notice Hannibal watching him, and of keeping his face pleasant and open. Even his posture is relaxed and easy, which is hard to fake. 

Will really is very good. It's a shame how soon this game will be coming to an end. 

He'd hoped the two of them could have one _real_ meal together, at least. Hannibal has never shared a proper feast with anyone who knew what they were eating. Discounting the occasional last meal, of course. 

If Hannibal were to provide the protein, though, that would rather have given the whole thing away, and Will hasn't seen fit to share anything so intimate, despite his other offers. 

"Not much to do but wait, then?" Will asks. 

"I'm doing a little figuring for other possible dive spots," Dr. Jenkins says. "Where water first pushed into the lower lake, for a start. Got a few tangles of debris flagged. Y'all wanna come aboard? One of the wildlife guys brought cards." 

"Nah," Will says, grinning suddenly at Hannibal. "I have a better idea. Hey, doctor, you wanna take a stab at catching your own dinner?" 

Which is how they end up at the far side of the small lake from the rest of the team, poles in hand. Will provides a cheerful and flirtatious lesson on tying, baiting and casting a hook, his every touch a test. 

Will is entirely casual and unconcerned as he opens the bow hatch of his homemade hunting and fishing boat to deposit his first sizable catch in the livewell through a hatch large enough to admit an adult man. 

There might still be trace evidence of Agent Wilson's death there, depending on how recently and thoroughly Will has flushed the compartment. 

He loans out his smoker. He rents this boat. It will be difficult to prove the provenance of what they may find. Where will the clearest trace evidence remain? Where does Will do his butchering? 

Will the roll of chickenwire under Will's steps still match what he was using six years ago? Or will there be fresher bodies under the dark and muddy water, with more recent clues. 

It has not escaped Hannibal that if Will believes himself to have been found out, his best course of action, perhaps his only chance for self-preservation, will be to take Hannibal hostage. What an adventure that will be...

A commotion at the dive boat catches Hannibal's attention and disrupts the card game on the deck. Another body recovered, then. "I suppose they've found something," Hannibal says as he reels in his line, taking a step back and ensuring the knife he stole is within his reach. 

"I suppose they have," Will agrees, sounding untroubled. He stows his own pole and tucks a few items away before approaching Hannibal to put away the last pole. When he takes it from Hannibal's hands, he leans close. "I really do like you, you know. I like spending time with you." 

"I'm glad," Hannibal says. He lets Will touch his face, wiping away a bead of sweat from under his ear, conscious all the while of where Will's other hand is. Conscious of the tension of the moment. Of the approach of the policeboat. 

"Hey Lecter," Jackson calls once the boats are close and parallel. "Come on over here." 

Will is still watching his face, rather than the police, so Hannibal smiles at him.

"Lecter, we need you to come aboard," Hotard says, repeating the request and making it sound more like an order. His voice is tense, as if he's expecting something to happen. 

Will smiles too, then, just a tight little twist at the corner of his mouth, and he steps back, letting his fingertips trail down Hannibal's jaw as they part. 

"Did the divers turn up something interesting?" Hannibal asks, finally turning to regard the other men where they stand aboard their own boat, feet planted wide and hands casually resting on their sidearms. Something is definitely wrong. 

"Go on," Will says, giving him a little push. "I'll catch us some dinner." 

"What's happened?" Hannibal asks. He climbs from one boat to the other, careful of his balance, and Hotard catches his arm to help him - but then doesn't let him go. 

"We need you to come back to town with us and answer a few questions," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The crab floats in the trees are a bit of a nod to Crazy Charlie, who ran the Blood River Landing marina and the Fun House for a long time, back in my particular patch of swamp. RIP Crazy Charlie.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s no telling yet what Will has done. The best course of action is to wait and see. As long as no one orders a raid on his home in Baltimore, or at least as long as the raid isn’t terribly thorough, he can probably disentangle himself from Will’s net._
> 
>  
> 
> _The main issue now is dealing with the actual police._
> 
>  
> 
> _When they reach the town, Hotard and Jackson have Robideaux drop the three of them off at the dock. “I don’t think he’ll be trouble,” Hotard says, grinning at Robideaux flirtatiously, white teeth and copper hair shining in the sun._
> 
>  
> 
> _“I still don’t understand what this is all about,” Hannibal says._
> 
>  
> 
> Or, Hannibal goes for a ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! Thank you all for being so patient. <3

**Saturday, May 21, 2011 - Iberia Parish, Louisiana, Atchafalaya River**

The ride is quiet, except for the sound of engine and water. Hannibal sits back with his hands unequivocally visible and observes the officers who have invited him to assist them in their inquiries. 

In the moment before they leave the lake for the river, Jack looks up from his conversation with Dr. Jenkins and frowns. He makes brief eye contact with Hannibal, before the flooded trees cut off their line of sight. 

And then Hannibal is alone with the Louisiana State Police. 

Trooper Robideaux gives the most away, nervously glancing away from the helm to look at Hannibal before returning her gaze to the water ahead. 

By contrast, Hotard and Jackson seem casual, relaxed. Jackson raises a hand to the rest of the team as the other boats disappear from view, then lights a cigarette and leans close to Hotard to speak below the noise of the engines. 

They watch Hannibal, but no one speaks to him. Hotard, in particular, looks him up and down appraisingly. He looks terribly pleased. 

Hannibal has had many opportunities now to observe Will as he pilots his boat. If he were to survive a confrontation with three armed officers, he could take the boat somewhere. North will get him to the long interstate bridge, which he would only need to follow to dry land to be at a major cross-country artery. South might, theoretically, get him out of the United States, in a boat this size, though Hannibal hasn’t studied navigation and isn’t confident in his ability to do more than keep the shore on his right until he finds Mexico - though he has no idea where one might refuel along the way, and by then someone would be looking for them. 

There’s no telling yet what Will has done. The best course of action is to wait and see. As long as no one orders a raid on his home in Baltimore, or at least as long as the raid isn’t terribly thorough, he can probably disentangle himself from Will’s net. 

The main issue now is dealing with the actual police. 

When they reach the town, Hotard and Jackson have Robideaux drop the three of them off at the dock. “I don’t think he’ll be trouble,” Hotard says, grinning at Robideaux flirtatiously, white teeth and copper hair shining in the sun. 

“I still don’t understand what this is all about,” Hannibal says.

“Just a problem at the motel. We’re still gathering information,” Jackson says, and gives him a little push to get him off the boat, onto the dock. 

“I’m sure I’ll be better able to help you, once I have some idea what’s happened.” 

“We’ll let you know when you can help us,” Hotard says. 

When Trooper Jackson opens the back door of the patrol car for Hannibal, he does it with a shallow, mocking bow. 

 

**Saturday, May 21, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

They leave him in the car, in the sun. 

Hannibal hasn’t been placed under arrest, and his hands are unrestrained, but the rear doors are locked. The idiots left the keys in the ignition, visible through the security cage separating him from the front seats. 

They haven’t taken anything from him. Hannibal could easily smash the window, climb into the front seat, and drive away. He wouldn’t even need to kill anyone to escape, if he were quick. 

It would still tear his life down around his ears. 

So, he sits in what amounts to a large oven. With the bright sun beating through the glass, the temperature rises enough Hannibal thinks he could sous vide a tenderloin, if he wanted it rare enough to taste the pig’s blood. 

He sits, marinating in his own sweat, and watches the officers speak with several members of staff at the Cypress Inn before disappearing into Hannibal's second-floor motel room. 

He has his phone. He could call someone. Jack is his best bet, but Jack is out of cell phone range, along with the rest of the team. Really, he ought to call his attorney, but he's still hoping this can be resolved fairly quickly. 

Under the pressure of a throbbing headache, he's just made up his mind to call Jack anyway and leave a voicemail, when Jackson comes out of Hannibal's room holding several evidence bags. It's hard to be specific at this distance, but one bag appears to hold a boning or filleting knife. 

Hotard exits as well, speaking into his radio. They take their time, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to stand in close conversation punctuated by frequent glances at Hannibal where he sits, sweltering. 

They may be hoping he'll be ill. If so, they'll have a long wait. Hannibal refuses to give up his dignity, or the fluids he may well need if this treatment continues. 

When Hotard leans through the front window, twenty minutes later, it’s to crank the car and turn on the air conditioning. The vents aren’t angled toward Hannibal, but he can feel the change immediately. He lets his relief show, and indulges himself by shifting until his face can catch a touch of the breeze, even though that makes Hotard laugh. 

A few minutes later, when the car is no longer an instrument of torture, Hotard and Jackson slide into their seats. 

“May I ask what this is all about?” Hannibal asks, keeping his voice steady but not bothering to try and hide the rasp of his dry throat. 

The two officers exchange a look, and then Jackson turns to look at him. “You wanna tell us why you were hiding a weapon under your bed?” 

“I wasn’t,” Hannibal returns. 

Hotard snorts a laugh and puts the car into gear before backing out of the gravel lot. 

“Well, that’s funny, cuz there sure was a knife under there just now.” 

“It isn’t mine.” 

“Oh yeah? You wanna tell us how it ended up in the room where you’ve been staying by yourself all week?

“Any number of people have been able to access the room, including the staff,” Hannibal says, frustrated now, less because of the situation than the sloppiness of the case being built against him. “I haven’t even looked under the bed since I checked in - whatever you found could well have been left by a previous guest.” 

“Sure, sure,” Jackson says, He holds up an evidence bag Hannibal hadn’t had a good look at until now. There’s a wallet inside, cordovan eelskin, with colorful plastic cards in slots and a Louisiana driver’s license bearing a very unflattering portrait of Agent Darryl Wilson. 

“We sure would like to talk to you, just for a little bit.” Hotard says, cheerfully. “Just until we hear back from New Orleans about this Wilson fella. Seems like nobody can get him on the horn.” 

“I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you have his wallet.” Jackson says. “Bloody knife's a little bit of a stretch, though.” 

**Saturday, May 21, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Franklin**

Hannibal isn’t sure if Bigarno lacks a place to hold police prisoners, or if the decision to take him to a sheriff’s station in Franklin has more to do with throwing a roadblock in front of the rest of his team. He wouldn’t know the name of the town where they take him at all, if it weren’t in the name of half the shuttered businesses they drove him past. 

They ask him about the knife and the cards, and his movements throughout the week, and his past interactions with Wilson. Then he's left in an interrogation room on an metal chair that’s bolted to the floor just far enough from the table that he can only rest his arms on the surface if he leans uncomfortably forward. There’s a large panel of mirrored glass overlooking the room. When he sits silently, he can hear periodic movement on the other side. 

They haven’t given him any water, but it’s hardly the worst deprivation he’s felt in his life. Hannibal sits back, hands folded in his lap, and waits patiently. 

In his mind, he replays the events of Thursday evening - Will’s combat with the alligator and the aftermath, Hannibal’s own decision to cut this distraction short. His rebuff of Will’s advances, and then - 

And then. He’d watched Will’s boat putting away into the darkness, toward his home, but where had it really gone? Had he returned and found his truck missing? Or had he set off for New Orleans at once, thinking Hannibal safely back in his own bed. 

Will knows the back roads, and he has his boats. The flooded roads near Morgan City that caused Hannibal to take the safer, longer, northern route wouldn’t have stopped him. He beat Hannibal to the city, snatched Wilson without alerting anyone and with no more sign of a struggle than an unlocked patio door and a blanket pulled to the floor. 

That had been before Hannibal had uncovered the extent of Will’s resume - seventeen white pins in the board, at least - or the skillful way he had managed to both help the investigation and lead it astray in one go. He’d thought Will a clever, feral thing, but only truly dangerous as a distraction. 

He had thought Will’s attempted seduction was meant to influence the lead investigator, to add himself to a mental category that most human beings would strike from a suspect list. And perhaps, if it had worked, that would have been sufficient for Will’s purposes. 

The entire team thinks Will and Hannibal are romantically or sexually entangled, at this point, and the more Hannibal protests it the surer they would become. Combined with that, Will very clearly spent the night with another man recently, and it doesn’t matter if Agent Ourso eventually testifies that Will spent the evening on the couch - no one else was present when Will told Hannibal the same. 

If Hannibal turns around now, from a prison cell, and accuses Will of framing him, of murder, with no physical proof whatsoever, it would be entirely too easy to write off. His integrity and professional reputation will be called into question. 

Hannibal _cannot abide that_. Anything, anything at all, that damages his trustworthiness in the eyes of the FBI, anything that reclassified him as a man who might be capable of a _crime of passion_ is too dangerous to be born. 

They ask him about the knife and the cards again. About his whereabouts for the last several days. They ask again. They tell him the water fountain is broken. 

Between their visits, Will grins at him in the darkness of his mind, teeth bloodied and bared. Hannibal grins back. 

He’s finally roused when he hears Jack’s voice booming down the hallway. There isn’t a clock in the room, nor any hint of daylight, but Hannibal estimates it’s been eight hours. 

It’s another ten minutes before a deputy opens the door for Jack. Hannibal spends the time bent uncomfortably to rest his head on his folded arms on the table, slumped and exhausted. 

“Jack,” he rasps when the man approaches, and pulls himself up with wounded dignity. “Thank god.” 

“They said they were going to talk to you about a problem at your hotel room,” Jack says, so furious his hand is shaking when he helps Hannibal to wobbly feet. “We’d have come with you, if we knew what was going on.” 

“What _is_ going on?” Hannibal asks. “No one’s quite told me…” 

“Agent Wilson may be missing. No one’s seen him since Thursday. His secretary’s been covering for him at work, so no one realized. Explains why I haven’t been able to get ahold of him.” Jack huffs a sigh, frowning. “Jesus, look at you. Are you okay?” 

“I would appreciate a drink of water,” Hannibal admits. 

The water fountain works perfectly well. Hannibal drinks as much as he can, then splashes a bit more on his face and runs his fingers through his hair to put himself into some kind of order. 

The effort is exactly enough, the effect entirely correct. When they walk into the front of the station and Beverly sees him, she looks as though she’s about to leap over the intake counter and strangle someone. It’s a good look for her, and Hannibal gives her a wan smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, it takes about 20 minutes before the air inside a car with open windows becomes about 20-30 degrees hotter than the air outside the car, and it will keep on climbing after that. Hannibal is not wrong about the temperature in the car being correct for slow cooking rare meat. 
> 
> I dry fruit on cookie sheets in my car with the windows cracked. 
> 
>  
> 
> [this chapter on tumblr](http://iesika.tumblr.com/post/178332332156/what-the-water-gave-me-iesika-hannibal-tv)


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You haven’t even asked if I killed that man,” Hannibal says. 
> 
> When Will turns, his eyes drag over Hannibal’s body, over the towel at his hips. “I know you didn’t,” he says, and Hannibal searches his guileless face. “Even if you’d hated the guy that much it’s not like you’d be so stupid about it.” 
> 
> How much does Will know that Hannibal knows?
> 
> For that matter, how much does Will _know?_
> 
> Intuition is a dangerous animal. Hannibal may not be the only one to have realized how often like calls to like. If Will can be so artfully artless in the face of Hannibal’s absolute certainty he’s responsible for Wilson’s disappearance, what else is he hiding? 
> 
>  
> 
> _Or, Will gets Hannibal into bed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please don’t think that my slow ass failing to respond to comments in a timely manner lately means I appreciate and adore any of you any less. Imma try to catch up <3 I love y’all so much!

**Saturday, May 21, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Franklin**

“I have to thank you for springing me,” Hannibal says, or starts to say, in the parking lot. Jack motions for him to save conversation for later, so Hannibal follows him past a deputy on a smoke break without another word. 

“They violated basic evidentiary rules of search and seizure,” Jack explains once they’re in the car. “Sloppy as hell. Can’t just barge into a motel room on the say-so of the staff.” 

“So anything they found is inadmissible,” Beverly adds. “Though from what I saw I could probably get it tossed out on grounds of forensic contamination alone. Not that they would let me get my hands on the knife directly. Even when I batted my eyes at Call-Me-Skip.”

Hannibal is hardly surprised. “What happened to the spirit of interjurisdictional cooperation we’ve been enjoying so far?” 

“State tried to make a case that letting the FBI handle the possible murder of an FBI agent by an FBI consultant present certain conflicts,” Jack grumbles. “First time in my life I’ve ever been happy to start talking about bringing in the Department of Justice over something. Offered to let them take over.” 

“Backpedaled real quick,” Beverly adds, smirking. “Also, threw my ass out of their podunk little evidence lockup, but-“ She pulls out her phone. “I did get some photos first.” 

She lets Hannibal take her phone and examine the imagines as Jack drives them back to Bigarno. “This is a kitchen knife. A boning knife, to be exact,” he turns the phone and zooms in. “Stamped, not forged, with a full tang but no bolster or butt. Not a single mark or burl from sharpening that I can see, though the photo quality may not allow for it.” 

“No, it was pretty shiny,” Beverly agrees. “Not a scratch on it.” 

“Then it was likely part of a set - at the pricier end of the non-expert home kitchen line, I imagine, with more knives than the average home chef knows what to do with.” Probably Wilson’s, snatched from his kitchen for authenticity. A vanity purchase from a man who imagines himself someone who grills a mean steak, but who stocked his kitchen post-divorce with all the items he thought a kitchen should have without a real understanding of what he ought to be doing with them. 

It’s certainly not Will’s, with his well-made, workmanlike tools. It won’t be traceable to him in any way. If it isn’t Wilson’s it will be a cash purchase from somewhere like a thrift store or garage sale. 

“Did you all come ashore just to rescue me?” Hannibal asks as he hands the phone back. 

“I left Zee in charge,” Jack explains, “assuming Jimmy doesn’t throw him overboard they’ll be fine.” 

Hannibal lets his head rest against the seat back and closes his eyes. 

Will must be running rings around them. 

 

**Saturday, May 21, 2011 - St. Mary Parish, Louisiana, Bigarno**

Sure enough, Brian and Jim are already back at headquarters when they arrive, the police diver having been forced to cut the expedition short due to equipment failure. 

“There was a crack or a split in the regulator diaphragm,” Jim explains while Hannibal lowers himself into a chair. “He kept getting a spray of water mixed in with every breath. 

“Do they not carry backup equipment?” Jack demands, frustrated. 

“Sure, but he was having trouble getting a good seal with the other one. Some kind of corrosion or damage on the valve. He spent the whole ride back bitching about budget cuts and old equipment.” 

“So, a big nothing,” Brian complains, “but that’s not even the real problem.” 

“The real problem?” Hannibal asks. 

“He thinks he saw Freddie Lounds in a gas station parking lot on the way back here,” Jim explains. 

“I did see her! She’s got the hair and all - hard to miss.” 

“Well, I didn’t see her,” Jim adds. 

“You were driving!” 

“Brian,” Hannibal says, touching the man’s arm lightly. “We _have_ talked about this paranoia. Not every woman with red hair is out to get you.” 

Brian makes a scoffing sound, but he laughs, rolling his eyes and letting the topic shift to Jim’s excitement over a cluster of bright pink spoonbills he’d seen during the afternoon. 

“How you doing?” Brian asks after Hannibal has had a little time to rest and rehydrate. “You look kinda…” he dithers, trying to find a polite way to say Hannibal looks ill and exhausted, and settles on, “you should let me check you over.” 

“While I have utmost trust in your abilities with your own patients, I’m not quite ready to become one, I think,” Hannibal says with a faint smile. “And I hope I have enough experience of my own to spot trouble.” 

“Let me drop you off at the motel at least.”

As Will is still suspiciously absent, and there is nothing to be done for the moment, Hannibal graciously accepts the offer. 

Unfortunately, when he arrives, his room is still being treated as a crime scene, and the manager is reluctant to rent him a second room after all the excitement of the morning. If fact, she seems frankly terrified to be speaking to him, keeping well back from the counter and out of reach. 

Her relief when the office door jingles behind Hannibal is palpable - no longer alone with the man who’d kept a bloody knife under his bed. Hannibal smells Will before he turns, sunscreen and river water and engine exhaust - heavier on the river water than usual, actually. 

“Beverly mentioned you were here,” Will tells him, when Hannibal raises his eyebrows in inquiry. “Said you might need some looking after. Hey Jenny.”

“Will,” the manager says with clear relief. “Is Danny back, too? I don’t know what to do about-“ she glances at Hannibal, then seems to rethink her words. 

“Dr. Lecter is fine,” Will tells her. “Some kind of misunderstanding. Don’t send the poor guy over to Fontenot’s - I don’t think he could handle the wildlife.” He tilts his head and shoots Hannibal a hopeful look. “Unless you’d rather bunk with me.” 

“...I don’t think I could handle the wildlife there either,” Hannibal demurs, earning a grin from Will. “And I think it would be best to remain near my team. But thank you for the kind offer.” 

“But he was…” Jenny, protests, but when Will leans over the counter with soft, pleading eyes, she caves to the pressure. “I...guess if they let him go it’s okay?” 

“Most definitely,” Hannibal assures her. “There were simply some questions to be straightened out. But I am very impressed by your diligence in ensuring the safety and comfort of your guests.” 

Flushing, she issues him a keycard for a new room, several doors down from the one marked with yellow caution tape. Will takes it on himself to walk Hannibal to the door. 

“I’m sorry you had such a shitty day,” he says, and he sounds infuriatingly sincere. Once Hannibal has the door open, he seems to remember something. “Hang on, I have some stuff-“ 

He abandons Hannibal at the door and heads into the parking lot. Hannibal leaves the door open a crack and strips off his shirt, turnabout being fair play. 

Will falters in the doorway when he returns, but not for the reason Hannibal had anticipated. His eyes on Hannibal’s bare skin are heated with anger, rather than attraction. 

After a moment, he seems to slump, exhaling, his posture and his expression going soft again. “They were rough with you, weren’t they?” 

He sounds genuinely unhappy about it. What a baffling individual. 

“I suspect that may be the rule rather than the exception,” Hannibal offers, just to see what Will’s reaction might reveal. 

“What a bunch of idiots,” Will grumbles as he puts down the bag he fetched from the car. “They had to know you weren’t going to end up with with some tax attorney for a public defender who wouldn’t show up at a trial.” He steps forward, reaching out without hesitation to place a hand on Hannibal’s throat. “Your pulse is up.” 

“Perhaps it’s the company.” 

“Perhaps it’s heat exhaustion. You’re still flushed, here,” Will rests a hand over the center of Hannibal’s chest. “And too warm. Go get in the shower. Lukewarm is best.” 

“I _am_ a doctor, Will,” Hannibal chides him, but he places his hand over Will’s on his chest and stares into his face. Either Will is a very good actor, or his concern is genuine. 

“And a physician who treats himself has a fool for a patient,” Will quips. He pushes lightly against Hannibal’s chest, letting his fingertips drag down Hannibal’s throat as they separate. “Stop being stoic and get in the shower.” 

Chuckling as he goes, Hannibal leaves the door ajar to see what Will may do. 

Hannibal is not usually self-conscious of nudity - and he still isn’t, exactly, but Will’s presence mere feet away somehow creates in him more awareness of his own body. He takes a moment’s extra pleasure as he soaps himself and rinses clean, letting himself experience the way the water, cool against his shoulders, splashes hot against his feet as it carries thermal energy away from his overheated system and down the drain, until something like equilibrium is reached. 

When he’s cooler and drier, he finds Will still in this new bedroom, mixing something in a large water bottle. Hannibal watches him for a moment before Will seems to notice he’s there. 

“You haven’t even asked if I killed that man,” Hannibal says. 

When Will turns, his eyes drag over Hannibal’s body, over the towel at his hips. “I know you didn’t,” he says, and Hannibal searches his guileless face. “Even if you’d hated the guy that much it’s not like you’d be so stupid about it.” 

How much does Will know that Hannibal knows? 

For that matter, how much does Will _know?_

Intuition is a dangerous animal. Hannibal may not be the only one to have realized how often like calls to like. If Will can be so artfully artless in the face of Hannibal’s absolute certainty he’s responsible for Wilson’s disappearance, what else is he hiding? 

Hannibal slips into the bed Will has helpfully turned down for him, letting his towel fall to the floor as he moves. Will collects it, surprisingly without comment, and sits down beside him on top of the covers. 

He checks Hannibal’s pulse again, his gaze turned slightly to the wall as he times the beats. After a moment he leans down slowly and touches his lips to Hannibal’s forehead, testing his temperature like a mother with a child. 

Under the cover of sun and water Will smells of healthy sweat and, faintly, Hannibal’s own preferred agarwood shampoo. The devious little scamp would have had to pay quite a bit extra, to have the delivery rushed from France. 

“That’s better,” Will says, when he leans back. He’s still close, his hip against Hannibal’s side, one knee tucked up against his body. “Here,” he says, presenting a liter bottle.

“You put something in this,” Hannibal says as he takes it. 

“I keep electrolyte mix in the truck,” Will explains. “I’m out on the water a lot. Tastes gross, but you need the salt.” 

“And the rest?” Hannibal asks, nodding to the bag Will left on the dresser. 

“Some clothes I think will fit you. Since you can’t get in your room.”

“How thoughtful.” Hannibal sniffs the bottle before he takes a careful sip. Salt and sugar, some sort of artificial citrus flavoring. Nothing noticeably bitter or otherwise unexpected, no strange sensation on the tongue. 

“Why didn’t you say you were with me that night?” Will asks, as he watches Hannibal set the bottle aside for now. 

_That_ is an unexpected question. “Why on earth would I assume you’d lie to the police on my behalf?” 

Will huffs out a sigh and climbs properly onto the bed next to him to stretch out on a bent elbow. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” The covers are between them, but Will’s body presses against his, all along his side. Their faces are scant inches apart. “If they’re going to go beating you with metaphorical rubber hoses I don’t mind a little white lie. I’m not a cop anymore.” He shifts a little closer, smiling slightly. “Besides, it’s only a little fib. I’d have stayed if you’d let me.” 

Perhaps that’s the game - make Hannibal owe him. Draw him into conspiracy, so it’s the two of them against the world. “A moot point now, since I told them I was in the motel room alone all night.”

Will shrugs. “Not too late to change your story. If you tell them you didn’t want to out me without my permission, I don’t think a judge would throw out the alibi.” 

“I don’t need an alibi, Will,” Hannibal tells him. “I didn’t commit this crime.” 

He’s tired, but not so tired as to make Will’s electrolyte drink suspect. Still, he doesn’t want to be up all night, and his head and body ache. 

“Thank you for tending to me. I’m feeling well, but tired, now. As a physician, I’m prescribing my fool patient ample bed-rest.” 

“I could stay,” Will says. He plays with the sheet between them, keeping his lashes low. “Play nurse.” 

“I need _rest_ , Will,” Hannibal says. He takes Will’s hand and pats it, to Will’s apparent pleasure. “You’d be a terrible distraction.” 

Looking pleased with himself, Will slides off the bed and, with slow reluctance, walks backward to the door. “Text me if you need anything,” he insists before he leaves. 

“Of course,” Hannibal says. “Good night.” 

Once he’s alone, he closes his eyes for twenty minutes, enjoying the support of even this cheap mattress offers his tired body. When he’s fairly sure enough time has passed that Will won’t be lurking in the parking lot, he gets up again. 

The bag Will left him does contain toiletries and freshly washed clothes, with socks and underwear at the top of the bag. Underneath, he finds the same well-worn denim jeans and chambray work shirt he’d...borrowed, Thursday night. 

Well. 

What is the man hoping to achieve with this game? Hannibal stands nude with the neatly folded shirt in his hands, running through options and motivations in his mind. 

He can’t think of anything this little dig would accomplish - in fact, giving Hannibal a way to explain away his DNA on the clothing could make life inconvenient for Will later. But, perhaps he doesn’t know where Hannibal had gone, or what he’d done - just that his clothing had been disturbed. 

Perhaps he’d gone to wear the shirt and scented Hannibal on the collar. 

Perhaps it’s another trap. But whatever it is, Hannibal would rather find that out than cover himself in soiled clothes. 

Smiling to himself, Hannibal dresses. 

He walks to the CVS and purchases some aspirin, in case someone happens to notice his going, or catches him on the return. If the pharmacy happens to be close enough to the Fontenot Motel and the all-night diner across the street that he can make a short detour on his way back, all the better. 

He nods with polite disinterest at the two underdressed and unhealthy-looking young women who smile at him in the parking lot, and spots what he is looking for toward the back of the restaurant. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Freddie greets when he slides into her booth, more satisfied than surprised. 

“Hello, Freddie,” Hannibal says as she shuts her laptop and puts it away. “I had wondered when you’d come to visit.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [jazzy2may](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzy2may/pseuds/jazzy2may) Log in to view. 




End file.
